by Sue Star
Interesting, that the directive had come specifically to Yaziz, interrupting him from the investigation of a murder that no one wanted investigated. Why him? Because he was koreli?
Or did they want to hush up something bigger? Like evidence they thought Yaziz was already working with.
But he had nothing of importance, not yet. So far, only a love letter for someone who didn’t exist, a Luger’s bullet, some broken beads, and Burkhardt’s name sewn into the suit—which suggested nothing more than the probable fact that Umit Alekci was a thief.
Besides, Aydenli and Bulayir would not work that way. Nor would they cover up evidence that would expose a revolution, since exposing it was exactly what they wanted Yaziz to do.
There was another answer. And Yaziz suspected the American woman could provide it.
Chapter Nineteen
Fifteen minutes later, Anna paid the taxi driver and climbed out behind Priscilla into one of the dusty streets of Ulus, the old city. She could hear a voice warbling an off-key melody somewhere in the distance, as if the singer were slipping along the cobbled street that rose at a sharp angle before them.
If you could call it a street, Anna thought. Somewhere up there in that labyrinth lived the Alekci family. They’d known Rainer.
She gazed up at the winding way, where the taxi driver had refused to go. Their mutual knowledge of French had only gone so far, and then Priscilla had had to take over with Turkish. Anna hadn’t understood their exchange, but the refusal was clear enough. The passage was no wider than an alley, and wooden buildings stacked on either side of it in the fashion of precariously perched tinker toys.
The museum was somewhere in this maze of streets, and her guidebook indicated that it contained historical artifacts from the Hittites, that mysterious people referenced briefly in the Bible. She yearned to go.
Instead, she had other, more pressing matters. Rainer. Before she could let that matter go, she had to learn what Umit’s connection to Rainer had been. So far, her only lead was Fededa.
“Where is this shop you mentioned?” Anna asked. “The one that Fededa’s husband owns?”
“This way.” Priscilla tugged on her arm and pranced with impatience as she led Anna through jabbering crowds. Men wore baggy pants and narrow-brimmed caps. Women also wore baggy pants, but instead of caps, they draped scarves, some white some flowered, around their heads and shoulders.
Anna felt the eyes of the crowd follow them as they wound their way up the street. She and Priscilla stood out in their summery gingham dresses with full skirts. Several small boys, bare-headed and barefoot, raced after them, shouting something.
“What do they want?” Anna asked, keeping a firm grip on Priscilla’s hand. Despite their western dress, a short person could easily disappear beneath the shoulder height of a crowd this dense, and Anna wasn’t going to risk another incident today.
“They want to carry our bags for us,” Priscilla said.
Anna paused to smile at the boys and shake her head. She held out her free arm to show them she hadn’t bought anything. All she carried was a straw purse, and she wasn’t going to give that up.
“Hayir,” she remembered to say.
She must learn Turkish. Her pathetic French wasn’t enough. Even if she knew a small amount of Turkish, she wouldn’t have to always ask Priscilla to translate for her. With language, it would’ve been a simple thing—well, maybe not simple, but surely easier—for Anna herself to place the call to Mitzi in Nairobi instead of asking for help and feeling like an idiot as a result. Without language, Anna felt stymied.
“Come on.” Priscilla yanked her through the congestion, showing an amazing strength for someone half Anna’s size.
At a slim opening in a wall of shops, a short flight of stone steps disappeared down into a dark tunnel. Anna hesitated. Today she’d worn her sensible Keds, rather than Mitzi’s slick sandals.
“Fededa brings me through here when we go to Ozturk Bey’s store.” Priscilla spoke with an impatient edge to her voice.
For now, Anna put her frustrations aside and gave herself up to the place. Earthy smells pervaded the air, the result of all the donkeys and oxen and sheep and feral cats that roamed the streets. Anna followed Priscilla down into the subterranean passageways and felt as if she left all the dirt and filth of the real world behind and entered a magic kingdom. She wouldn’t have been surprised had one of the carpets drifted up from its stack and floated away.
She blinked, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the dim light inside the partially buried market. Thin streams of outdoor light trickled in through occasional openings that reminded her of portholes with jelly-glass thick windows. Against the weak rays of light, dust motes spiraled into the darkness overhead, yet the air inside the bazaar was cool and damp and heavy with fresh smells of leather, wool, and a medley of spice.
Filtered light streaked across bins and stacks and shelves of multi-colored clutter. Anna relaxed her grip on Priscilla, and they wandered companionably past narrow shops that squeezed side by side in the covered alleyway. Priscilla moved with purpose, tugging at Anna past copper and brass that gleamed with lustrous shades of amber. There were leather bags, plush rugs and towels, slippery silk fabrics and filmy gauze, ceramics painted with intricate designs, jewelry, meerschaum, glass baubles, and a thousand other things that Anna couldn’t absorb.
She wanted to stop and inspect everything closer, but Priscilla pulled her on, reminding her of their mission. Merchants, wearing resigned grimaces on their faces, watched them pass without trying to tempt them inside their stalls. Anna was grateful for their placid nature.
Finally, Priscilla stopped before a low wall, which displayed leather slippers across its rim. Pairs of tied-together slippers were all of one style, having a single strap across the arch and curled-up toes with a tassel at the tip. Where each pair differed was in its size and the design of beads or sequins sewn onto the slippers’ velvety straps.
“My friend Gulsen wears funny shoes like these inside her house,” Priscilla said. “You’re not supposed to wear outside shoes inside, did you know that? She lets me borrow a pair of hers when I go play with her.”
Anna ran her fingers along the smooth leather sole and traced the curve of the toe. Something about this shape charmed her.
Priscilla squinted up at her. “Why aren’t we supposed to wear slippers like these in our house, too?”
“It’s a Turkish custom, and inside the privacy of our homes we don’t have to follow their customs.”
“But our house is Turkish. It even has a leylek nest on top.”
“That means stork in English, right? Honey, we’re Americans, and as long as we live in that house, it becomes...sort of an extension of the States.”
“But I don’t feel very much like an American. If I’m an American, how come I don’t live in America?”
Anna set down the slipper she’d been holding and turned her full attention onto her niece. “Haven’t your parents discussed this with you?”
“They’re not here.” Priscilla shrugged. The way the ends of her mouth curled down reminded Anna of the facial expressions she’d seen already on some Turks—a sad look, as if they regretted having to admit “no.” In this case, Priscilla probably was sad about her parents’ absence. And resentful to have Anna, a poor substitute for Mitzi and Henry.
Anna couldn’t be sure what her niece was thinking. She didn’t know her, not really. “Your mom and dad will be back, honey, later this fall. Meanwhile, maybe you could invite Gulsen over to our house to play.”
“She isn’t allowed to come to my house because it’s too different.”
“Then we have to make her feel more comfortable. Perhaps we need some of these slippers. We could make a rule to wear them in our house, too.”
“But, Mama says—”
“Your mother’s not here, is she?” Anna had never known her sister to adhere to anyone’s customs but her own.
A smile flickered about Priscill
a’s lips, and her eyes glittered. “You mean, we should buy some to wear at home while Mama and Daddy are gone?”
Anna nodded. “We’ll each need a pair. And one for your friend, too, when she comes to visit. What do you think of this flower design?”
Priscilla flitted from one pair to the next, gathering samples of different sizes to bring to Anna. She held them up against her shoes for size, and the merchant encouraged her to try them on. Priscilla unlaced her saddle shoes and pranced around the cramped space in curled-up slippers, shaking the tassels and giggling.
Anna felt drawn to the rounded outline of the toes. This was a country of curves, she thought, as if the ancient clock of its history had eroded away any sharp edges, leaving behind a land of worn hills and domed roofs and rounded minarets. Even the people reflected curves, the way their baggy pants ballooned out, their soft caps rounded against their heads like berets with narrow brims, and the way the tips of their shoes curled up.
Instead of trying on the slippers, as Priscilla was doing, Anna only wanted to touch them, hold them, and run her fingers along their outline. There was something familiar about this shape...
Then, a memory of special evenings long ago...flowed through her like a warm elixir. She glimpsed flashes of herself sitting with Rainer on his porch. It was summer, before he left for war. They’d watched the oranges and reds of sunset seep into purple shadows of the foothills. They sipped German wine from his family’s heirloom stemware, brought over from Germany when Rainer’s grandparents immigrated in the 1880’s. Anna used to trace her fingers along the stem and across the slick surface of the glass where a strange orange design was painted of a stoop-shouldered dwarf with curled-up feet.
Curled toes, much like the ones on these slippers.
“I said, how do you like these?” Priscilla’s insistent voice penetrated the fog that numbed Anna’s mind.
“What?” Anna blinked away the memory. “Yes. Let’s take all of them.”
“What’s wrong?” Priscilla asked, squinting up at her.
“Nothing.” Twelve years after Rainer’s disappearance, nostalgia hardly overcame her anymore.
The slipper merchant said something to her and motioned her to a chair, but she shook her head.
“You’re crying,” said Priscilla.
“No, I don’t think so. Something in my eye. That’s all. Can you pay for me?” Before Priscilla could question her further, Anna handed over some of her limp bills displaying Atatürk’s face and turned her back on the rows upon rows of curled-up slippers to gaze out at the main thoroughfare of the bazaar. She just needed a minute to compose herself. She didn’t like the idea of appearing weak before Priscilla. After all, she was here to care for her niece, not the other way around.
By the time Priscilla reappeared, holding a package wrapped up in newspaper and tied with string, the wave of nostalgia had passed. Anna smiled. “All right, then. Where is this shop we came here to see?”
“Oh, it’s not in the bazaar.”
“It’s not? Then why did you bring me here?”
Priscilla giggled. “’Cause Fededa always brings me through here. There’s a candy man on the way, and he sells Turkish Delight. You want some, don’t you?” When Anna hesitated, Priscilla continued, “There’s enough money left over for some candy.”
“Okay...but honey, I must speak to Fededa’s husband.”
“This way.” Priscilla set off past cluttered rows of stalls, and three young boys ran after her, holding out their hands in a gesture offering to carry the bulky bundle of slippers. A man looked up from behind the newspaper he was reading to watch the disturbance. His mat of thick, black hair bobbed, like a V-shaped bird’s nest spilling over his forehead.
Anna’s heart fluttered for an instant. She was certain she’d seen him somewhere before. Where? She scanned her memory of all the rushing faces she’d seen in the last day but wasn’t sure. He was one of the police, she thought. She hoped. He’d been watching her house. Now he snapped the newspaper back into place before his face, and she turned back to Priscilla.
But her niece had disappeared from sight. All the surrounding people had swallowed the little girl from view.
“Priscilla, wait!” She glanced back at the policeman with the bird’s nest hair as if he could lead her to Priscilla, but he had disappeared, too.
Chapter Twenty
Yaziz didn’t have to work hard to keep the American woman in sight. The design of her dress, he remembered from his days in the States, they called “checked”—a disagreeable pattern that made her stand out in the bazaar like a neon sign from downtown Bloomington.
He thought it fit the boldness of the woman, however. If her western dress weren’t enough, then she had her western height that kept her in view above the bobbing heads of Turks, who were, in general, a shorter people.
Because she was easy enough to keep within his sights, and because she was occupied inspecting every slipper in efendim’s store, Yaziz took the time to order a coffee from one of the boys that worked the area. Who knew how long it would be before he’d have the opportunity to enjoy another sweet shot?
Yaziz’s koreli nose had told him from the beginning that the American woman held the key. He’d survived Korea thanks to those instincts. They were instincts he’d learned to trust.
Miss Riddle was the key to the gypsy’s murder, which was the key to whatever was bothering Bulayir, and yes, even to the general unrest on the streets of Ankara. Solve the puzzle of the Americans, and the rest would fall into place.
Which was why he was following her now. That, and the fact that he’d been unable to find Suleyman or one of his other junior officers available for this routine surveillance duty. Yaziz was keeping all of his boys too busy, running background checks on Miss Riddle. And pestering the lab, which still hadn’t decoded the message that the phony letter surely contained.
Was it possible that the letter to the questionable Lieutenant Rainer Akers was nothing more than a love letter?
No.
Yaziz supposed that in the end, it was better for him to do his own tedious field work. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, and if he didn’t know, then how could he instruct someone else to find out what he would end up wanting?
Then, understanding hit him. The letter had been the American woman’s role in this affair all along. The letter itself wasn’t evidence. Its delivery was the signal for the start of the revolution! Its code was in the address, not the flowery message within. The address contained a number—109—that supposedly directed the letter to England.
Now he realized the number itself was the code. Such a simple answer, and he’d overlooked it.
He would have his boys track it down, but for now, he bet that no such address existed. It was a date. September 1. A date for when the revolution was set to begin... Day after tomorrow.
Aydenli already knew. That’s why he’d pulled Yaziz from the gypsy’s case. He wanted to suppress the so-called evidence, and therefore the signal that would put into motion the very event Yaziz must stop.
He wondered to whom the letter should’ve been delivered. The generals planning the revolution would ultimately need to receive that go-ahead signal.
Very handy that one of them lived next door to the Burkhardts.
The warm froth had just touched his upper lip when Miss Riddle emerged from the shop. Yaziz kept his head lowered over his brass cup, but his eyes rolled up in her direction. Two shops beyond the slipper shop, a man in a suit rattled an opened newspaper that otherwise hid him from view.
And why not? The American woman made herself into a spectacle much more interesting than any newspaper account that had been approved by the government for publication.
But now Yaziz wondered about the man. He must be one of Miss Riddle’s own people, reading the Republic News. Only U.S. intelligence would hide behind such an inconsequential barrier as censored newspaper print.
He wondered why they would become interested
in a woman who had the bad taste to wear checks and the bad luck to always find herself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Unless, it was as Yaziz had suspected all along, and the woman was involved in a scheme far bigger than her innocence protested. She was working for Burkhardt—probably about to pass information—and she was using an innocent child as her cover to do her business. Abominable!
The child appeared at Miss Riddle’s side, and her contact folded his newspaper, exposing himself to Yaziz’s view. Erkmen! How could Yaziz have guessed so wrong?
Suddenly, the child darted away into the crowd, as if she intended to run straight into the arms of Bulayir’s lieutenant. The woman lurched after her. Yaziz slammed down his brass cup on the nearest tray and followed.
* * * * *
Anna shoved her way through the crowds and finally caught up to Priscilla at an exit from the covered bazaar. Her niece had stopped to examine a display of candy. Anna paused to glance over her shoulder, searching for the man with the bird nest hair, but if he was there, she didn’t see him. Shadowy outlines of people moved behind her in the bazaar, hiding any stalker from view.
Was that what he was? She wondered in a brief flare of anxiety if he’d also been the person following them the day before at Atatürk’s Tomb.
He worked for Yaziz, she reminded herself.
No. She assumed he worked for Yaziz.
Her heart pounded in her chest. If he’d meant them harm, he could’ve easily grabbed Anna by now. She’d given him the opportunity back there with her momentary lapse of confusion. He hadn’t. She took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves.
Priscilla spoke in Turkish, and Anna turned back to watch the vendor peel several cubes of sugared, gummy candy from a tray. Priscilla traded her money for the sweet treats, then skipped along a ray of sunshine that stabbed into a side street. She paused long enough to hold out a piece of candy for Anna.
