Ünal hesitates a moment. “Of course not.” Out! he orders the men in Turkish. The door clicks shut behind them. Penny sags a little with relief. At least the guns are gone.
Ünal, however, doesn’t seem to be leaving.
“And you?” prompts Penny.
“I stay.”
“I’m only going to check your pulse and temperature,” says Dr. Salt-and-Pepper. His hands are quick and professional. “No fever. That’s good. Let me check those bandages.” He slowly peels the tape away from her forehead. She feels a sharp sting as he dabs away the sweat and dried blood and freshens the antibiotic ointment. “Excellent! Already scabbing over. You’ve been a very lucky girl. Now, say ah. . . .” To Penny’s confusion, he shines a flashlight inside her mouth and checks her teeth, running a rubber-gloved finger over the surface of each molar. “That looks fine.” He turns to Ünal and adds in Turkish, “No hardware.”
Penny blinks. She must have misunderstood. Hardware? Were they expecting braces?
“Çok iyi,” Ünal says approvingly. “How’s the girl?”
“Not bad,” replies the doctor in Turkish. “But she’s very weak.”
“Has she been drugged?” demands Ünal. He obviously doesn’t realize Penny can understand. She keeps her face carefully blank.
“No. It’s just a saline drip. You want me to?”
“Not yet. We need her sharp.”
“You’re shivering, Miss Penny,” says Dr. Salt-and-Pepper suddenly, in English.
The hairs on Penny’s arms are standing straight on end. Her heart is hammering so loudly, she’s amazed they can’t hear it. “I’m—cold,” she stammers. “Could I maybe have a jacket, or a sweater or something?”
“Of course!” Ünal strides over to the wardrobe and opens a mirrored door. Inside hangs a deep crimson bathrobe with President Palamut’s emblem, the arch of golden stars, embroidered on the back. He drapes it rather clumsily around Penny’s shoulders.
“How are you feeling now, Penny?” asks Dr. Salt-and-Pepper. They’re both staring intently at her, with unnaturally fixed smiles.
Penny’s head is throbbing, but she’d feel safer swallowing bleach than any pills these two might give her. “I’m just so sleepy,” she lies. The quaver in her voice is mostly real. “If I could just lie down for a few minutes—alone . . .”
“Of course.” Ünal’s eyes crinkle in a fatherly smile. “There is a phone by the bed.” He points to an elaborate ivory-colored instrument that looks like a prop from the Doris Day musicals Penny used to watch with her grandma. “Dial six if you need anything. It will be good for you to rest. Melek Hanım is in a meeting right now, but she’ll be up to welcome you very soon.”
“Wow,” says Penny weakly. “That’s”—she flounders—“really nice of her.”
“Let’s help you up, Miss Penny,” says Dr. Salt-and-Pepper. “Haydi, dikkat—careful . . .” He pushes back the comforter and sits Penny down on the edge of the bed. The bedspread is Bursa silk.
Ünal rolls the saline drip up next to her. To Penny’s barely suppressed rage, he ostentatiously tucks her in, as if she were a tiny child. “Sweet dreams, Penny!”
Penny’s mouth is bone dry. “Thank you,” she murmurs, closing her eyes tight, hoping the men will leave her alone. “You’re all so kind.” With great effort, she makes her breathing slow and shallow, as if she were falling asleep. She can almost feel them staring.
Finally, she hears them pad across the carpet. There’s a pause—they must have turned to check that she’s really out for the count—and then an electronic click as the door shuts behind them.
Penny forces herself to lie still. One one thousand, two one thousand . . .
After two agonizingly slow minutes, she feels safe enough to open her eyes. She pushes herself upright and looks around. No sign of either of them. Penny slides her feet down onto the silk carpet and takes a determined step toward the door.
The IV snags painfully in her arm.
“Goddammit!” Penny shoves up her sleeve, rips off the tape, and yanks out the needle. It hurts, and she’s made the puncture bleed, but she doesn’t care. Anything’s better than being chained to that thing another moment. She pulls her arms through the crimson robe and ties it snugly. She staggers over to the wardrobe and tugs open the doors. Empty. She checks what turns out to be a sleekly overdesigned white marble bathroom with what looks like a garnet and a turquoise on the gold taps. Empty. The closet doesn’t even have clothes hangers in it. When she shakes the curtains, they billow limply. She squats and checks under the bed—only a patch of freshly vacuumed carpet. She really is alone.
She sits down cross-legged in the middle of the carpet and draws a steadying breath.
Not yet. Ünal told the doctor not to drug her yet.
Her hands are shaking. Why were they looking for hardware in her mouth? The moment she made an unexpected move, those soldiers were ready to shoot her. Who do they think she is?
She looks at the Doris Day phone. Who’s she going to call, anyway? All her contacts are on her cell, and most of the people she knows in Ankara are dead.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think.
Besides, she’s seen enough spy movies to be sure they’ve bugged the phone. She suddenly remembers Brenda. Her number’s somewhere in Penny’s email. All she needs is a computer. She walks to the door and tries to turn the handle.
Locked from the outside.
It’s official.
She’s a prisoner.
No panicking, Penny tells herself. It’s not like they’re going to hurt her. They can’t. This is Turkey, not North Korea. She’s a U.S. citizen. She’s with the State Department, for God’s sake! They’re not going to let one of their own interns get hurt.
She remembers.
Fireworks.
The wet red grass.
Tripping over what turned out to be a child’s severed foot, with a tiny white party shoe.
Her hand, clamped so hard around the flag she just couldn’t let go, even as she ran. Even as she screamed.
A snatch of melody flares through her mind: the song the band was playing earlier that night.
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there . . .
Sobs convulse Penny’s shoulders. She can’t stop, and she doesn’t want to. When she finally catches her breath, her eyelashes have clumped into jagged triangles, and her nose is snotty. The pink tissues by the bed stink so strongly of synthetic roses, Penny retches.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She walks into the bathroom and splashes her face, feeling a dozen tiny stings. She glances in the mirror. She looks like she’s been in an explosion. The cuts aren’t as bad as they could be—though that jagged one above her eyebrow should leave an interesting scar. She pulls her hair back into a braid and ties it with a raffia cord from the fancy bottle of rose-scented hand lotion.
Right. Clean face, tidy hair. Now she’s got everything under control. There’s just the small matter of escaping to somewhere where nobody’s going to drug or shoot her.
She tries the doorknob once more, just in case. It emits an angry-sounding beep. She snatches her hand away. The air vent in the bathroom isn’t wide enough for a chipmunk to crawl through. The window! It stretches from floor to ceiling, a solid glass wall, with a waist-high wrought-iron railing outside, which gives the illusion of a balcony. Penny checks the window’s edges; there’s no way to open it.
She thumps herself ungracefully back down onto the carpet. An elaborate silver ewer is on the coffee table, ringed by tiny golden zemzem glasses, no bigger than a doll’s teacup. She pours herself a thimbleful of water.
So this is what she’d always dreamed of? All those years of reading Grandpa’s National Geographics in the bow window, yearning to see the world; staying up every night for five months, studying to ace the tests that got her into U of M with almost a full ride; slogging through three years of Tu
rkish classes and two summers of intensive language training; saving what she’d earned all year from work-study at the dining hall, waitressing at the coffee shop, and her weekend job at the bookstore, reusing her tea bags and living on salted store-brand pasta, a thousand tiny economies and deprivations, just to afford this internship.
Suddenly she remembers the tall CIA guy, Connor—the Southern one with the kind voice. He said the terrorists had kidnapped Zach. If it really is the Hashashin, Zach’s got hours, days at best. Everyone knows about the Hashashin—they castrated that poor hiker and gouged out his eyes, for all the internet to see. God knows what they’ll do to an American spy.
Penny’s hands curl into fists. Connor said the Agency needed her. Maybe, just maybe, she could help them find Zach in time. But not if she’s trapped in here.
There is a sharp electronic beep from the door.
Penny lunges for the bed.
8
* * *
DELIVERED
The door swings open. Penny tries her best to look drowsy.
It’s Ünal again, looking smarmier and shinier than ever. “Please, Penny. Don’t get up. I have the honor to present Melek Hanım, daughter of our great President.”
Melek Palamut makes her entrance, a princess in all but name. She’s dressed in shades of muted white, the color of mourning in Islam, from her elegant head scarf to figure-skimming trench coat, down to her white leather boots. She’s a young-looking thirty-two, slightly made and chastely graceful, with powerful, arched brows and strikingly intelligent eyes, so dark the irises look nearly black. She looks straight into Penny’s eyes—a searching, almost soulful stare.
Melek Palamut walks to the bed and cradles Penny’s hands in her cool, manicured fingers. “My dear. You are alive, alhamdulillah.” Her voice is cultured and sweet, gentle as a kindergarten teacher’s. Of course her English is flawless; she’s a Barnard grad. “All night, I have sat awake, praying for the souls of the victims.”
Penny is suddenly ashamed of her fears. Melek Palamut wouldn’t hurt a fly. “You’ve been very kind to me.”
“I wish only that I could do more.”
“You can.”
Melek looks at her with surprise. “Yes?”
“You can send me back to the hospital. My colleagues need my help. Let me go back to them.”
“And what will you do, poor little girl?”
Penny is stung. “I’m twenty-one, Melek Hanım. I graduate from college next year.”
The sides of Melek’s pale-lipsticked mouth quiver in what threatens to become a smile. “Of course. I forgot. You are a diplomat. Very grown-up. But you are hurt, and you need rest. And what place is safer than here, where I can watch over you?”
“You must have me confused with someone else.” Penny can hear how desperate she sounds. She doesn’t even care. “I’m just an intern. I’m not important.”
“Oh, but you are.” Melek’s eyes are intensely bright. She turns to Ünal. “Çekilebilirsiniz.” It’s a royal command: You may withdraw.
Ünal’s eyes dart suspiciously to Penny. “But Melek Hanım—”
“Now.”
The door clicks closed behind Ünal.
Melek turns back to Penny. “You see, Penny, we have a friend in common.”
“We do?”
“Zachary Robson.”
“Zach?” Penny leans back on the poufy pillows. “You know Zach?”
“He is . . .” Melek blinks hard and presses a hand to her heart. “Very important to me.”
Penny can’t believe her ears. This can’t be right. “You and Zach are . . .” She can’t quite bring herself to say it. She looks up at the President’s beautiful daughter with a heart-pounding mixture of astonishment, curiosity, and a sharp twist of jealousy. “You’re . . . together?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Melek jerks away. In her flash of anger, her resemblance to her father is suddenly clear. Two dark splotches of red are visible through her thick foundation. She shakes her head, and the silken fringe on her head scarf sways. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m sorry,” says Penny quickly. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Melek smiles tightly. “Be more mindful.”
Penny doesn’t dare do more than nod. “I feel a little sick. Could we get some fresh air?”
“Too much fresh air can make you ill, you know.”
“Just a little? Please?”
Melek walks over to the window. Sliding her manicured finger into a groove in the frame that Penny hadn’t noticed, Melek pulls it open a few inches. A gust of hot and dusty air blows into the room.
Penny takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”
The President’s daughter sits down on the end of the bed. “I need your help, Penny.”
“You do?” says Penny carefully.
“I need you to tell me everything.”
Penny stalls for time. “Everything?”
Melek gives an older-sisterly smile. “I’m sure dear Zachary told you to be discreet. You’ve done very well. But you’re safe now. You can tell me.”
“Melek Hanım, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Melek’s mouth purses. “That’s enough, Penny. I’m Zachary’s friend. You need to tell me. Otherwise, we may not be able to save him.”
Penny feels a knot of dread beginning to form in her gut. “Tell you what?”
“Penny, please don’t test my patience.”
“I don’t mean to,” says Penny carefully. One wrong step, and she senses Melek’s gentle calm will shatter like spun sugar. “Believe me, if I knew what you wanted to know, I’d tell you.”
“Penny, let me put all my cards on the table.” Melek leans closer, so close Penny can smell her perfume—rose again, one note and candy sweet. “I know you spoke to Zachary and Mehmetoğlu, just before the bomb went off.”
Penny freezes. “How can you possibly—”
“That isn’t important. What matters is, that isn’t all I know.” Melek’s voice remains gentle. “I know Zachary’s secret. And that means I know yours, too, my dear.”
“My secret?” Penny’s heart is pounding. “Melek Hanım, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Melek is perfectly still for a moment. Then she laughs, a polite, garden-club-lady laugh. “Oh, Penny. Is that the best the CIA could teach you?”
Penny forces herself to sound as normal as she can, but her voice still comes out shaky. “I’m not a spy, Melek Hanım. I’m a college student.”
Melek’s expression is stony.
“I don’t know what Zach was doing,” protests Penny. “He told me to put Mehmetoğlu on the guest list, but I don’t know why. I don’t know whether he was really a spy or not. I don’t know anything. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. It’s true.” Despite herself, she can hear the catch in her voice.
“I take it back, my dear.” Melek observes her calmly. “That was convincing. It might work on a man. I might even believe you, if I didn’t have proof that you’re lying.”
Penny looks at her, horror-struck. Melek’s got to be bluffing. She must be. “How can you have proof of something that isn’t true?”
“Just before the party, Davut Mehmetoğlu, the man you and Zachary were talking with, sent a message to an unknown contact. Someone we believe to be affiliated with a Kurdish terrorist group. I have seen this message. Do you know what it says?”
Penny pulls her knees up to her chest. “Of course not.”
“Take a look.” Melek holds out her phone. There is a screenshot of a phone, with a short text message visible, in English, sent at 19:48 p.m. on July 4. “What does that say, Penny? Go on.”
Penny swallows. “It says, ‘Good luck to the girl with the flag.’ ”
Melek looks grimly triumphant. “The girl with the flag. Now, who do you think that is?”
Penny doesn’t dare meet Melek’s eyes.
“Good luck with what?” Me
lek’s fingers clamp painfully tight around Penny’s upper arm. “Mehmetoğlu never mentioned you in any of his other messages. Neither did Zachary.” There is something almost frightened in Melek’s intensity. “Just what did Zachary have you doing? And before you lie to me, remember where you are, and who I am.”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” says Penny hoarsely.
“Mehmetoğlu received another message fifteen minutes after this one. A reply. Just one word. ‘Delivered.’ What was delivered? The bomb?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must know.”
“But I don’t.” Penny is shaking.
“Who are you?” Melek’s eyes narrow. “Did Christina send you?”
“I don’t know who that is.” With the numbness of terror, Penny can see every stray speck of Melek’s mascara, the faint lines at the corners of her mouth, the flare of her nostrils. There is no cruelty in the President’s daughter’s face. If anything, she looks confused.
“Maybe you don’t.” Melek releases Penny’s arm and frowns. She walks over to the window and closes it firmly.
Penny rubs her sore arm; Melek’s gleaming French manicure is sharp. “May I please make a call?”
“To whom?”
“My supervisor. Brenda Pelecchia.”
“Why?”
A deep chill creeps up the back of Penny’s neck. “She was going to bring me some clothes.”
“I really don’t think you’re well enough for a long chat, my dear. The doctor said you might take a turn for the worse. It was a bad head injury. They’re very unpredictable.”
Penny’s headache has clanged painfully back to life. “Are you . . . threatening me?”
“I don’t want to.” Melek is visibly upset. “Truly I don’t.” She sounds sincere enough. “Please help me, my dear. Otherwise, I won’t have any choice. Believe me, I’m the best friend you’ll find here.”
“What do you mean?”
Melek looks away. “This isn’t personal, Penny. But you are making things very difficult.”
“You don’t dare hurt me.” Penny tries to sound much braver than she feels. The rumors about Palamut’s Presidential Guard are ugly. Political prisoners have been tortured. A few have simply disappeared. “Everybody knows I’m here.”
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