“Penny needs to talk.” There is a bottled intensity in Frank’s face now.
“With all due respect, Mr. Lerman, aren’t you here to handle PR?”
“With all due respect, Ms. Pelecchia, I answer to the Secretary of State. Not you.”
Penny startles them both. Hoarsely, in polite schoolgirl Turkish, she asks the nurse for a few minutes of privacy.
The nurse casts Frank a look of deep mistrust. Is Penny sure?
She is.
The button is right here. . . .
Penny nods. “Teşekkür ederim.”
When the door is closed, Penny looks Frank Lerman square in the face. She draws a deep, unsteady breath. “At orientation. I remember. They said—be careful. They said you never know who’s . . .”
“Listening.” Frank Lerman is not smiling. “Good advice.”
Penny speaks slowly. It feels like inching along a rope, hand over hand. It takes more strength than she really has. “It happens to me. All the time. People . . . don’t realize. That I speak Turkish. I overhear—all kinds of stuff.”
Frank’s fingers drum on the wall. “Let’s stick to the point, Penny. What did Zach Robson and Mehmetoğlu talk about?”
“Nothing.” Penny shakes her head; it throbs. “Kids. Traffic. Fireworks.”
“That’s it?” Frank sounds unconvinced.
“It was—normal.”
“What exactly did they say, Penny?” cuts in Brenda. Her voice is gentle, but her stare is laser strength. “It’s extremely important that you tell us everything you remember.”
Tears smart in Penny’s eyes. “That’s it. And the museum—the Anatolian Civilizations Museum—”
“An attack?” demands Frank. His finger is already on his phone.
“The renovations,” says Penny hoarsely. “And Mehmetoğlu got a text—but I don’t know who from, or what it said.”
“Do you think they might have been speaking in code?” Brenda asks Frank.
“Code?” Penny’s jaw drops.
Frank frowns. “It’s possible. . . .”
“No,” protests Penny. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
Frank’s jowls pouch out in consternation. “Do you honestly expect the United States government to believe a known terrorist came to the Embassy to chitchat about the weather on the day it happened to be bombed?”
Penny winces.
“Mehmetoğlu is not a known terrorist,” protests Brenda. “He was a member of parliament for the leftist Kurdish party for eight years—”
“Until he was removed on terrorism charges.” Frank has the smug certainty of a man whose entire knowledge of the matter derives from a single briefing last night on the plane to Ankara.
“Him and how many other Kurdish politicians? I’m not saying Mehmetoğlu’s clean—he’s been associated with Kurdish separatist forces, especially after he got out of prison—but we have no direct proof—”
“He’s on the TIDE watchlist, Ms. Pelecchia. That’s good enough for me.”
“What I don’t understand,” Brenda continues, “is why the hell Zach Robson agreed to this.” Her lips are only a thin line now. “Why was he meeting with Mehmetoğlu in the first place?”
“Let’s not point fingers here, okay?” says Frank.
Penny closes her eyes.
Zach.
She’d been touched when he asked for her help, even with something as little as this. She’d tried so hard to impress Brenda, to prove her worth, and nothing. But Zach pulled her aside and told her she had potential. He was the first diplomat at the Embassy who didn’t look right through her. She leans against the thin pillows of her hospital bed and tries to picture him by the grandstand. Hand on her waist, joking about his spilled Bellini, so proud of little Mia. He couldn’t have looked less like a man expecting a bomb.
“Penny,” Brenda is saying. “Did Zach tell you anything about the meeting with Mehmetoğlu? Why meet at the Fourth of July party, for God’s sake?”
“Zach said . . . he was an important contact.” Penny strains to remember; the words don’t come easily. “He said it was okay, Mehmetoğlu was cleared, but there was . . . some bureaucratic problem. I think . . . his boss. MacGowan. It was urgent, but MacGowan was sitting on the paperwork.”
“That figures.” Brenda turns to Frank. “Zach and MacGowan had some bad blood.”
“Zach didn’t tell you anything else?” growls Frank.
“No.”
Frank and Brenda are watching her.
Penny can tell they don’t believe her. “He didn’t.”
“He sure told you a lot for an intern who doesn’t even have Top Secret clearance.” Brenda’s expression is not kindly.
“He said my translations were good,” says Penny almost apologetically. “He wanted to mentor me.”
“I don’t remember hearing anything about this,” says Brenda coldly. “I am your supervisor, Penny.”
“I’m sorry.” Penny is blushing. “Zach said it was routine. I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“Well, Penny, my intern working for the CIA is my idea of a big deal.”
“The CIA?” Penny looks from Brenda to Frank. “But Zach was in the Political Section. I mean, he’s with the State Department. Right?”
There is a ringing silence.
Frank turns to Brenda. “Is she for real?”
“Don’t blame me. I didn’t hire her.”
“But he was in our Section!” protests Penny. “He had a cubicle and everything—I translated the Cumhuriyet op-eds for him—”
“Sometimes, Penny,” says Frank, with mocking slowness, “spies don’t want everybody to know they’re spies. So they use a little thing called diplomatic cover.”
“I’m not stupid,” whispers Penny.
“Honey,” Frank says, smirking, “he’s an ‘information officer’ working in the POL Section. What did you think that meant?”
Penny feels as if she’s about to be sick. Suddenly so much about Zach makes sense. Did everyone know except for her? She tries to catch Brenda’s eye, searching for some glimmer of support—or at least sympathy—but her supervisor won’t look her in the face. Penny studies the ceiling. She won’t cry in front of them.
“Sir?” The tall young man—Connor—who’s been leaning against the sink in the corner of the hospital room, holds out his BlackBerry to Frank. “Sir, Main State wants to know when Miss Kessler will be ready to meet the press. They’re getting impatient. Top level.”
“Jesus. Hello?” Frank grabs the BlackBerry and slams into the hallway.
Brenda looks to Connor. “Seriously?”
“Ms. Pelecchia, in this time of tragedy, the United States must show the world—”
“Save it.” Tight lines radiate from Brenda’s mouth. “We can’t shove a suit behind a podium in DC? What the hell is Penny supposed to say?”
“Penny’s a symbol, Ms. Pelecchia.”
“Of what?” Brenda almost spits.
Connor shakes his head. “We have to do something.”
“I won’t have this.” Without a glance back at Penny, Brenda’s heels clack out.
Penny pulls her knees up to her chest. Through the nausea, she can smell sharp lemon disinfectant—same one Fatma, her stout, opinionated landlady uses.
“Hey.” Connor walks over to her bed. “You—want some more water?”
Penny tries to speak, but her throat is too tight. She manages to nod.
He hands her the crinkly plastic cup. She drains it and croaks, “Thank you.”
“You’ve been a trouper.” Something about his low, slow voice is comforting.
Penny scrunches her eyes against the throbbing pain in her head.
“Hurt a lot?”
He’s not just being kind, Penny realizes through the red billowing in her skull. He’s assessing her. Forcing her eyes open, she stares back at him. He’s surreally untouched—a visitor from a world that didn’t just blow up. Sturdy jaw, thin sandy hair like a baby’s, spotless black suit,
charcoal tie. Nose like a little boy’s, small for his long face. American flag pin. Always the pin. They hand them out at the Embassy like candy, and for some reason, she kept collecting them. She must have seventeen in her top desk drawer.
Her desk. Was it even there anymore?
“Penny?” Connor’s watchful eyes haven’t left her face. “You okay?”
Penny turns away, toward the safe blank wall. Her lips are almost too dry to talk. “Look, no offense . . .”
“I get it, Penny. I wouldn’t feel like talking, either.” He glances toward the door, to make sure Frank is out of sight. “You want to see those papers?”
Penny nods.
He clicks open the briefcase.
Paper crinkles as Penny turns clumsily, faster and faster, from photo to photo, an endless, slightly crumpled gallery of her own bloodied face. She leans forward, bent over the blanket of colorful broadsheets. She wishes Connor would leave her alone.
“There was no sign of Zach or Mehmetoğlu after the explosion,” Connor says. He sits in the chair beside her bed, right ankle propped restlessly on his left knee. In his hand, like an ungainly laptop case, is a black polyester lock bag—classified material. “Even if they died, that far from the blast their bodies would be easy to ID. They vanished. We have reason to believe the terrorists may have kidnapped them.”
“Kidnapped?”
“The explosion knocked out all CCTV in the Embassy garden, but two minutes after the blast, security footage a block away caught two unconscious men being loaded into an unmarked van.”
“Two men.” Penny blinks. “And you think . . .”
Connor nods. “State always screws things up, so my boss wants to handle this in-house. It seems Zach broke protocol to involve you. So now we need to know exactly what you know, to maximize the chance of finding him while he’s still alive.”
“What?” Penny whispers.
Connor isn’t listening. “Obviously, you don’t have the clearance, but I have special dispensation to read you in.” He emphasizes the word I, reveling in authority to which he is obviously unaccustomed.
“Clearance?” Penny echoes stupidly. “But I already have . . .”
“The Secret clearance State gave you? This is all Top Secret/SCI.” He sounds, Penny thinks woozily, like her older-boy cousins when they were kids, trying to play grown-up. Connor opens the black lock bag and pulls out a clipboard of forms. He flips a couple of pages, suddenly awkward. “So—Zach reported that you two have been in an, uh, physically intimate relationship for the past two weeks.” Connor darts an earnest glance at her over the clipboard. “Do you, uh, confirm that?”
“What?” Penny stares at him in horrified embarrassment. “Physically—no. No.”
“Okay.” Connor looks skeptical. “We can put that on pause. What I really need you to tell me about is the mission.”
“Mission?” Penny covers her eyes with her hands. “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know.” Connor sounds impatient. “The mission Zach’s had you working on. The reason he needed you to set up a meeting with Mehmetoğlu.”
“What?”
Footsteps and voices outside the door. Far too noisy to be doctors.
“Don’t mention this to Frank and Brenda.” Connor rises to his feet. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“This is ridiculous, Mr. Lerman!” Brenda’s voice filters through the closed door. “She’s barely conscious.”
“Keep it quiet, everybody.” That’s Frank.
The doorknob turns, and Frank and Brenda squeeze in. Penny glimpses the jostling crowd of journalists behind them; the Diplomatic Security agents push them back. A searing flash goes off before the door can shut. Penny pulls the blanket up, all the way to her chin. Newspapers rustle untidily to the floor.
“Jesus Reagan Christ.” Frank Lerman’s bald patch is oily with sweat. “Conrad—”
“Connor, sir.”
“You think I give a crap?” Frank glowers. “Just keep them under control. Nobody comes in until I say. Got it?”
“Sir.” Connor turns to Penny. “See you after your press conference. Say cheese.”
“Wait.” Penny’s heart is thudding so hard it feels like her whole body must be shaking with it. “Connor, wait!”
The door shuts. He’s gone.
“Say cheese,” mutters Brenda. Her face is blotchy; her Hillary haircut is frizzing out in the humidity. “Of all the inappropriate—”
“If you keep getting hysterical, Ms. Pelecchia, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Hysterical?”
Frank sidesteps Brenda and sits heavily on the end of the hospital bed. “How’s that noggin, Penny?” Now he sounds like a shopping-mall Santa Claus.
Penny pulls her feet away and stares at him in woozy mistrust. “Can I have an aspirin, please?” She licks her sandpaper lips. “And some water?”
From somewhere outside comes the faint singsong of sirens, getting closer.
“Of course, Penny.” Brenda glares at Frank. “This is a hospital.” She reaches for the red button to summon the nurse.
“Uh-uh.” Frank covers it with his pink, hairy hand. “First things first.”
“My dad.” Penny turns to Brenda. “Did you call my dad?”
“We have to notify the families of the deceased first,” Frank begins.
“I called the number listed on your emergency-contact form,” Brenda cuts in. “Your father’s, um, studio? The message said he was in the Grand Canyon for his, his . . .”
“Found-art inspiration trip.” Penny’s bruised shoulders slump in the papery-green hospital gown. “I forgot.”
“There was no email listed, or a cell—”
“He doesn’t have one.”
“Ladies?” Frank raises his eyebrows. “Back to business. Now, Penny. A few ground rules for the press conference.”
Penny crosses her arms tight over her hospital gown. “I’m not dressed.”
Frank ignores her. “This isn’t an ordinary press conference. You’re the victim here, which makes it a lot simpler. Honestly, Penny, I wish it were always this easy.” He laughs.
“Easy.” Penny glances down at the graveyard headlines scattered around the floor.
“It goes without saying that you aren’t an official spokesperson for the Department of State,” Frank is saying. “I’ll remind them of that before we get rolling. But I need you to be very careful about what you say. I’m going to walk you through it word by word, okay? I’m confident you can do this, Penny. You know why? Do you remember the Thirteen Dimensions that make a good Foreign Service officer? Composure is number one. So you’re gonna do just fine.”
“I’m not a Foreign Service officer.”
“Of course not, Penny, but—”
“I’m an intern.” Penny’s trying not to cry. “You guys don’t even pay me. Did you know that, Mr. Lerman? I had to get a scholarship to cover my airfare. My rent is coming out of my student loan. My dad told me I was crazy to come.”
Frank leans over and hisses, “You were supposed to translate newspapers. You got the goddamn Embassy blown up. Because of your mistake, because you put Mehmetoğlu on that list, a hundred and eighty-nine Americans are dead. So you be grateful if we don’t charge you with treason. And we may yet.” He leans back and switches his nice voice on again. “So let’s stay on track, huh?”
Penny looks to Brenda; Brenda won’t meet her eyes.
“Right.” Frank cracks his knuckles; he’s back on his home turf. “First of all, no political remarks. Nothing about the terrorists. Nothing about the Secretary of State. You call it an ‘explosion,’ not a bomb. We’re not confirming anything till the forensics come through. The message is, you’re fine, and America will be fine. You got up and kept walking. So will America. The Department of State is taking great care of you, and you couldn’t be more grateful. You can cry if it comes naturally—that would be a good clip. You’re grieving for the loss
of your brave colleagues—”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” says Penny quietly.
“It goes without saying that you can’t mention Zachary Robson.” No response. “Penny?”
Penny looks him in the eye. She speaks slowly, through the grogginess. “Mr. Lerman, why do you want me to do this?”
She can see him trying to choose an answer. Finally, he offers something that might actually be true. “We need a distraction. The NATO Summit in Istanbul starts tomorrow night. An attack like this makes America look weak. Folks will want to blame my boss. We can’t let that happen. There’s a vacuum of information right now. You fill it.”
Penny swallows. The narrow pink walls of the hospital room are starting to feel like a cage.
“You don’t have to worry about the journalists. These are the tame kind. You ready?” Frank goes to the door and nudges it open a crack. “Let ’em in.”
Brenda takes one last stab. “Mr. Lerman, so help me—”
But Connor has already opened the door.
3
* * *
INVITATION
Noise crashes in. Penny flinches.
“Keep it down!” barks Brenda. She steps to Penny’s side with a guard-dog expression. “They can’t make you say anything,” she mutters.
Six journalists and six cameramen are admitted, and the door is closed again on the rest of the gaggle.
A cluster of microphones is held to Penny’s face, like a bouquet. The cameramen make the best of the horrible fluorescent light.
Penny huddles against her pillows.
“Poor kid,” mutters one journalist. He’s wearing a flak jacket with the name tag NICK ABENSOUR—BBC pinned to it.
The woman from Fox complains, “This is ridiculous. Can’t we just mike her up?”
Nick Abensour leans forward, eyes fixed on Frank. “Mr. Lerman, what will this attack mean for Secretary Winthrop’s peace deal? Is this weekend’s NATO Summit still on track?” Abensour speaks with a slight Parisian accent.
Frank snaps, “I’m not the one giving the interview, Mr.—”
“Abensour.”
A battered memory surfaces in Penny’s mind. On the BBC website she used to read Nick Abensour’s Turkey column, a humane, principled voice in a cacophony of ignorant screaming.
Liar's Candle Page 3
