by K. J. Howe
Signs in the window featured pictures of cakes and pies. He thought of the coffee and croissants they’d never had a chance to eat on the train. His stomach growled loudly.
Fatima smiled, looking up at him. “I could also use a bite.”
Johann held the door for her, looking around as he did. A variety of truckers perched at battered Formica tables. Many looked as if they had lived hard, with deep wrinkles carved into their gray faces. A guy in greasy overalls gave him and Fatima a long stare. Some of the men were downing their food in quick gulps, eager to get back on the road, while others lingered over coffee.
Two scantily dressed women lingered near the toilets, chatting with each other and occasionally eyeing the customers. In a corner a man sat reading a newspaper, and Johann caught a glimpse of a front-page story about the investigation into the attack on Schönbrunn. His mind went to the canisters inside the backpacks, which seemed heavier with every step.
There were plenty of seats open at the counter, which had the best vantage point inside the restaurant. “Let’s sit over there.”
He and Fatima made their way over and plopped down on the swivel stools. Within seconds, a waitress brought them two empty mugs. “What you want?” she asked in heavily accented German.
“Pancakes and coffee, please,” Fatima responded.
“Make that two,” he said. “And sausage on the side for me.”
The waitress grabbed the coffeepot and poured two brimming cups, slopping some of the hot liquid on the counter before heading back into the kitchen. Johann used a napkin to wipe up the mess. “Not exactly like the last place I took you,” he said.
“At this point, I’d eat a spare tire.” She tucked an errant hair under her scarf.
“I’m sure there’s plenty of those around here.”
A man sitting two stools away smiled at them. He had dark skin and a wide face with lively eyes. “Marhaba,” he said to Fatima.
She returned his greeting in Arabic, then continued speaking to him. Johann had no idea what she was saying, but he did hear the word Istanbul, so he figured she was asking about his destination.
The waitress dumped their plates onto the counter, slipping the bill under Johann’s coffee mug. He didn’t dare ask for a refill.
He and Fatima wolfed their pancakes while she spoke to the man. They were both smiling, nodding, so he figured it must be going well enough. Suddenly, Johann felt a presence and turned to see the man in the greasy overalls looming behind them.
“You desert pigs invade our country, steal our jobs, and babble in your stupid gibberish. Shut the hell up,” he said in accented English.
Before Johann could step in, their new friend raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sorry if I offended you, sir. I was just leaving.” He slipped a couple of bills under his plate, nodded to Johann and Fatima, and left the restaurant.
The guy in overalls dogged his every step on the way out. “Don’t bother coming back here either. You’re not welcome.”
Fatima shook her head at Johann, a curt gesture. He understood. Every inch of him wanted to tell the man off, but he held his tongue—for Fatima. They couldn’t afford to be involved in a disturbance. Instead, they too left money on the counter and headed for the door. Maybe they could find a trucker in the parking lot who might be willing to take a couple of paying passengers to Turkey.
Exiting the restaurant, Fatima immediately turned to the left, heading toward the parking lot.
“Sorry about that. But don’t worry, we’ll find a ride.” Johann felt bad for both Fatima and the kindly driver.
A little smile curved on her face. “We already have one. Mohammed is headed south, and Istanbul is on his way.”
“How much does he want?” He hoped they’d still have some cash left over.
“Nothing. He just wants to help. I told him that I have a relative in need in Istanbul—it’s close enough to the truth.”
“That’s wonderful, Fatima.” Maybe we can pull this off.
They reached Mohammed’s truck, a Peterbilt eighteen-wheeler that looked as if it had seen better days, the royal blue paint on the cab chipped and scratched. Mohammed opened the side door with a wide smile.
“Make yourselves comfortable.” He spoke English so they could both understand. “If you’re tired, there’s a small bed in the back, behind the seats.”
The interior of the cab was meticulously tidy, if a little weathered. A photo of Mohammed’s family perched on the dashboard.
“You have three kids?” Johann asked.
“And a fourth on the way. It’s a full house.” He laughed.
“Beautiful family.” Fatima sounded wistful. She must be missing hers. A pang of envy caught Johann off guard. A profound sense of loss vied with the guilt inside.
Chapter 82
Johann woke from a long nap in the back of Mohammed’s cab. The undulating of the truck had soothed his frayed nerves, allowing him to sleep. His mind felt clearer, more centered. Fatima had dozed for a few hours earlier but now sat up front with Mohammed. Johann kicked off the blanket and climbed into the front of the cab to join them.
“I was just going to wake you. We’re going through border control to Turkey in five minutes.” Fatima’s voice quavered; she was obviously worried about the crossing. Mohammed had no idea what his two teenaged passengers were transporting.
Johann felt the same trepidation but didn’t want to let it show. “Thanks again for letting us ride with you, Mohammed.”
“It’s been wonderful having company. The late-night radio shows get a little boring.” The truck driver laughed, something he seemed to do easily and often.
“How long are you usually away from your family?” Fatima asked.
“At least two weeks every month, sometimes more.”
“It must get lonely.” She touched the photo of his family sitting on the dashboard.
“Definitely. In Yemen, I trained as a mechanical engineer, but they wouldn’t accept my credentials here, so I accepted this job to help pay for my children’s university.”
“You’re a good man.” Fatima said.
Johann’s face reddened. The Dietrich family had been wealthy for generations, especially now, and he’d never had to consider what he could or couldn’t afford.
Mohammed geared down the eighteen-wheeler. “Two kilometers to the border.”
Johann reached into the back and covered the two backpacks with a blanket. “What product are you transporting?”
“Fertilizer. Turkey imports a lot of it.”
An uncomfortable feeling roiled in Johann’s gut. Maybe they’d chosen the wrong ride. He wondered if Mohammed had ever been hassled at the border. The son of an arms manufacturer, Johann knew that fertilizer was often used to make bombs.
“I’d be delighted to buy you a meal after we go through customs.” Mohammed decelerated the truck to join the lineup of vehicles preparing for the crossing.
“That’d be great,” Johann said. “But we’re treating.”
“Then I promise not to order the filet mignon.” Mohammed smiled.
“Can I ask you something—why didn’t you tell off that jerk in the diner?” In the silence that followed his question, Johann wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut.
“Good question,” Mohammed finally said with a sigh. “Europe has become a tricky place for people like me. Everyone is scared because of a few horrible events carried out by Muslims, events sensationalized in newspapers and on television without much understanding or sympathy. The anger of people like the man in the café is an expression of that fear.”
“But you did nothing wrong,” Johann said.
“Yes, but he has been shaped by the society around him. My skin color and my language were enough to provoke him.” He paused. “Instead of reacting to the abuse in a negative way—which would make the problem worse—I chose to respond with respect. Maybe next time, remembering our interaction today, that man won’t lash out.”
Fatima’s eyes were wet. “It’s not easy to be judged by your appearance, your religion. Islam promotes peace, helping others. The extremists on both sides feed on each other, and the death and destruction they cause hurt us all.”
“What if true Muslims fought the extremists?” Given the relative numbers, Johann figured they’d surely win the fight.
“Through violence? Then we’d be the same as them,” Fatima said. “Setting an example of peace is the only way.”
But someone has to stamp out terrorism. Johann thought of the innocent people, the kids, killed in the Schönbrunn attack. He believed that Omar Kaleb deserved to be punished. But was he already beginning to think like his father, like the man in greasy overalls?
Mohammed merged into the right lane. Two Turkish police officers toting MP5s stood to one side while the customs representative approached the driver’s window of the eighteen-wheeler. The truck driver passed the officer all three of their passports. The customs officer flipped through the pages, studying them intensely. Johann tried to appear calm, even as he was shaking on the inside. In preparing for the trip, he had learned that customs officers looked for physiological signs of stress, like darting eyes, sweating, fidgeting hands. Johann had discussed this with Fatima, and they both managed to mask any obvious tension—until the man asked about their luggage.
Chapter 83
Johann tensed when the officer asked about their belongings. Although he had two pairs of underwear and a fresh shirt stuffed beside one the canisters, it wasn’t as if he could show the officer his backpacks. Before he could answer, Fatima did.
“We were robbed on the train. The thief stole everything.” Her eyes were downcast.
The customs officer studied their faces. Johann didn’t dare breathe.
“It happened in Bucharest. The Gypsies. If this kind man hadn’t come along,” she said, gesturing to Mohammed, “we’d be stranded.”
The officer studied Fatima’s face, then his. Yes, those damn Gypsies.
“They’re visiting her sick aunt in Istanbul,” Mohammed said.
Seconds ticked by. Johann felt sick, trapped.
“Go on.” The customs guy let them through with a brisk wave.
Relief flooded Johann’s body. Mohammed put the truck into gear and drove into Turkey. He probably wondered why Fatima had lied, but he had gone along without question.
After a lively meal together, Mohammed dropped them off near the city center in Istanbul. Johann hated to say goodbye. Meeting this man had been a blessing, and he couldn’t be more grateful, especially after their harrowing experience on the train. Best of all, he had never once questioned them about Fatima’s declaration at the border.
Johann had been tempted to confide in Mohammed, but he didn’t want to involve yet another innocent person. The trucker looked sad as they said their goodbyes. Long-haul driving was a solitary job. Talking to Fatima in Arabic had probably felt like a slice of home.
Now they were alone again, but Johann hoped it wouldn’t be for long. They would make contact with Thea Paris, and they’d meet with Fatima’s cousin. One important stop first.
While Fatima waited in a nearby coffee shop, Johann entered the all-male Turkish bathhouse, the heady scent of eucalyptus bringing back memories of his last trip to the city, with Uncle Karl. A wave of sadness passed over him as he reminisced about that magical week. They’d spent an entire afternoon at the Grand Bazaar looking for a gift for Father, finally settling on a green hunting coat fit for an aga.
During that trip, he and Uncle Karl had visited many of Istanbul’s amazing, exotic attractions, and he remembered being awed by the architecture, the sights and smells of the city’s many street bazaars, and especially the multiple daily calls of the muezzin to prayer. The ezan chanted from the loudspeakers of the Blue Mosque had mesmerized them as they stood among the benches outside, a call to the faithful that was loud and beautiful and profound. With its enormous tiered domes and soaring minarets, the Blue Mosque was the most beautiful building Johann had ever seen, and that was only from the outside. When they were finally able to venture within, Johann had been amazed at the intricate tiled tessellations, proof that math and art could be one and the same.
Answering the Blue Mosque’s call to prayer was the broadcast from the Hagia Sophia, just across the plaza from where they stood. It had originally been built in the sixth century as a Greek Orthodox Christian church but later served as a Catholic church and finally as a mosque. Now it was a museum filled with countless objects of wonder.
Only two years had passed since that visit, but it felt like a lifetime. And now Karl was gone forever.
Shifting the backpacks on his shoulder, he paid the entrance fee for the baths and requested a large locker. Inside the changing room, two men were disrobing. If their hand and foot gestures were any indication, they were engaged in an animated discussion about football. Johann stalled, untying his shoelaces and tying them again, waiting for the men to leave. He wished he could enjoy the healing baths, forget his troubles for a few hours, but that wasn’t why he was there.
He and Fatima had both agreed that carrying the plague around the city was a bad idea. If Father knew which train they’d been on, he could easily discover their final destination and track them down. Instead, they would stash the containers inside the changing room—it would be more secure than using the lockers at bus and rail stations, given all the CCTV cameras.
The men finally left, strolling down the hallway into the baths without giving him a second look. Johann shoved the backpacks into a large locker, closed the door, and triple-checked that it was firmly locked.
Slipping the key into his jacket’s zippered inside pocket, he left the baths, joining Fatima in the coffeehouse for a quick snack and Turkish coffee. They walked the two kilometers to her cousin’s flat, the fresh air and caffeine giving him a lift—or maybe he just felt lighter without the two backpacks.
“What’s your cousin like?” Johann was intrigued to meet a member of Fatima’s family but also worried about trusting someone he had never met to manage this burden.
“Smart, kind, and righteous.” Fatima looked up at him. “Don’t worry, Marush will help us.”
“Will he call your parents?”
“I’ll ask him to hold off until he has taken care of the canisters.”
Johann wasn’t sure how Marush would react after learning Johann’s father wanted to commit genocide against all Arabs. What would I do in his shoes?
Fatima led them up a path to a large stone building. Entering the building’s foyer, she pressed the button for apartment 4A. Seconds passed. Maybe no one was home. A scratchy buzz sounded, followed by a woman’s guttural voice.
“Yamen, it’s me, Fatima,” she said.
A rush of Arabic followed; then a buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open.
Johann glanced at Fatima. Her face had paled slightly. “My parents called, wondering if they had heard from me. Who knows what Yamen told them. I should have mentioned, my cousin’s wife, she’s . . . excitable.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.” Fatima started up the stairs.
Before they could reach the upper flat, the door had already opened. A heavyset, middle-aged woman with weathered skin stepped into the hall and crushed Fatima in a massive hug.
An exchange in Arabic followed. Johann didn’t know what had been said, but, judging from the skeptical look on Yamen’s face when she looked him up and down, he was already in her bad books.
Yamen dragged Fatima into the apartment. He followed.
“I’d like for you to meet my friend Johann,” Fatima said in English.
; “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“What have you done to my niece, taking her away from her home, her family?”
“Please, Johann is helping me with something important. We need to speak to Marush. Is he at work?” Fatima asked.
Panic clouded Yamen’s face.
“What is it?” Fatima asked.
“Marush was taken last week by the Turkish police.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell Mama and Papa, all of us?” It was Fatima’s turn on the offense.
“The police claim he was involved in a failed coup against the president.”
Johann’s hopes plummeted. The scientist had his own problems. He felt bad for Fatima and her aunt but sick about losing Marush as an adviser.
“I’m so sorry.” Fatima placed a hand over Yamen’s.
“I’m worried I’ll never see him again,” she said, tears slipping from her eyes.
“Don’t think like that. We’ll hire a lawyer, help you. You should have told us—we’re your family.”
“You mean, like you told your family about your plans to run away?” Yamen asked, wiping her face.
Fatima blushed, and Yamen pressed on. “What did you need from Marush?”
“Just his advice in a scientific matter.”
“I won’t be much help, then.”
“It’s okay. It’s still good to see you, even under such terrible circumstances.” Fatima squeezed Yamen’s fingers.
“Your parents are really worried. You shouldn’t have run off like that.”
“Are you going to tell them you’ve seen me?”
“I should.”
“But you won’t?” Fatima asked, pleading. “We need a little more time.”
Yamen hesitated. “I will give you a day, but then you must contact them—or I will.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Fatima hugged the thickset woman. “I’m very sorry about Marush. He’s a good man.”