Liar's Candle

by August Thomas

  “No.” Penny put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell me.”

  “My grandfather had a house up in Maine, on Mount Desert Island. In Northeast Harbor—the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. We called it the Cottage. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nannies—we’d all go stay there, every summer, all thirty of us.”

  “Pretty big cottage.”

  “Yeah, well—my grandfather was a war hero. Understatement was kind of his thing.” Zach squinted at the sunset. “We would have picnic suppers on his boat. Lobster rolls and watermelon. My grandmother—she’s very theatrical—she used to make us all play charades. I was fifteen. I thought I was in hell.” Zach grinned. “I was a real little asshole.”

  Penny laughed. “Poor Zach.”

  “One weekend, my cousin—our golden boy—drove up from Harvard Law with some friends. He said he was going to take them out on this catamaran the family owned, but I knew they were planning to stay back at the Cottage and have a real party. He was my idol. I begged him to let me come. Of course he didn’t want me there. But his buddies had some . . .” Zach pantomimed snorting cocaine. “And they thought it would be hilarious to get me high. Anyway, they got some girls and a few bottles of Scotch. We were all at the Cottage. I was upstairs, pretty much wrecked. And apparently, my cousin accidently dropped one of my grandfather’s lit cigars onto my grandmother’s heirloom curtains.” Zach shrugged. “Old houses catch fire fast.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “My cousin and his buddies and the girls, they panicked. They jumped in their cars and drove away. I was so out of it upstairs that I didn’t even realize what was happening. My cousin called 911, pretending he’d seen the flames from the catamaran. The fire department showed up. My whole family showed up. My cousin ran in and saved me—from the fire he started. The big hero. I got blamed for everything. Kicked out of school. I could barely get into UVA. The official family screwup for the rest of forever.”

  “The other guys just let you take the blame?”

  “They couldn’t afford to get caught—they all wanted to go into politics. My cousin told me, he figured I was just a kid—I’d get past it.” Zach shook his head. “My grandfather sure never did.”

  “But why didn’t you tell the truth?”

  “Oh, I did. But I’d been suspended at school that spring for sharing my Adderall. Dorm parties—you know, kids trying to be cool? We all did it. But I got caught. So when my cousin said I started the fire all by my little coked-up self . . .”

  “They believed him.”

  “Yup.”

  “But that was years ago. Look at you now! You’re a diplomat. You’ve lived all over the world. You have Mia. . . .”

  He grimaced. “I wish I could do better for her.”

  “You’ll be there for her. That’s the best any dad can do.”

  Zach leaned back on the warm rock of the citadel wall. He was quiet for a minute. “You’re sweet. Do you know that?”

  “I’m right.”

  “We’ll see.”

  A one-eyed orange kitten hopped up between them on the stone wall, meowing hopefully.

  “Oh, really? You’ve never been fed in your whole life?” Zach scraped leftover ground lamb from his dürüm wrap onto the stone wall. The tiny creature purred. “Yeah, yeah. I’m a soft touch.” Zach rubbed the kitten’s head and looked up at Penny, smiling. “So. Did it go better with Brenda the Bad Witch today?”

  “I wish I knew how to make her happy.” Penny stroked the kitten’s back. “I’ve tried everything—”

  “Stop trying. I’ve been watching you, Penny. You’re different. You notice things. Some of us aren’t ever going to be part of the crowd.” He wiped the lamb grease off his hands with a towelette. “And that’s a good thing.”

  “It’s just . . . I’ve been working toward this for three years. If I’m no good at it, what am I going to do?”

  “You’ve been here, what, three weeks? Besides, you’re twenty-one. A daily identity crisis pretty much goes with the territory. But you can always come to me for advice.” He winked. “Think of me as your personal Buddha.”

  “But with better hair.”

  He laughed—a deep, reassuring chuckle. “So. The inevitable question. Why Turkey?”

  “You first.”

  “I bid on Paris and Rome, but State sent me here. Some crap about serving my country.” He grinned. “What’s your excuse?”

  She started to reel off the usual answer. “Turkey’s such a fascinating crossroad of cultures. My grandparents came here on a cruise before I was born—it was my favorite photo album. So it makes me feel close to them. Plus, anthro majors have to take a non-Indo-European language, so . . .” She added more quietly, “U of M is a language flagship for Turkish. If you keep your grades up, summer intensives are free. Food, board, everything.” She looks down at the cars crawling far below. “It meant I never had to go home.”

  “Cheers to that,” said Zach. They clinked green glass bottles of apple pop. “Why do you think I love my job so much?”

  27

  * * *

  FAIRY TALES

  O-52 HIGHWAY, NEAR YARBAŞI, TURKEY

  03:24 LOCAL TIME

  Penny wakes disoriented.

  A weak blue light is shining in her face.

  “Cracker or chocolate?” repeats the bus attendant.

  Penny squints at him. Every muscle in her legs has cramped up. Outside the window, there are no houses. The moon illuminates gray fields and low, jagged hills.

  “What time is it?” she croaks.

  “Almost three thirty,” replies the woman in the window seat. Her accent is crisp, university educated—ladylike hanımefendi Turkish. But her round cheeks, Penny notices, are pink with sunburn. She must be at least forty, but her high color makes her look a decade younger. “I recommend the crackers.”

  Penny stifles a yawn. Her hands are freezing from the air-conditioning.

  “Tea or Nescafé?”

  Penny rubs her heavy eyes. “Do you have water?”

  She turns to see how Connor will handle this. His eyes remain resolutely shut, even when the bus attendant shakes his shoulder. With an irritable mutter, the old man moves on. Connor catches Penny’s eye and winks.

  “Turkish isn’t your mother tongue, is it?” says the sunburned woman at Penny’s side.

  Penny feels heat pool in her cheeks. Attention is the last thing she wants. “People don’t usually notice.”

  “Ah”—the woman smiles—“but I am an archaeologist. I notice details.” Her quick eyes fix on Penny’s rustically tied head scarf. “You are visiting family in Mardin, maybe?”

  Penny decides she won’t lie if she doesn’t have to. “I’m a student.” She chooses her words carefully. “I’ve always wanted to see Mardin.”

  “You arrive at a troubled time. But, çok şükür, there is still much beauty to be found in Tur Abdin.” She uses the ancient name for Mardin Province and the surrounding lands. “The last time I came, I gave a talk at a little primary school near Midyat. I saw three little girls playing hopscotch in the school yard. One was counting in Turkish, one in Kurdish, and one in Aramaic. You know, the language of the prophet Isa.”

  “The language of Jesus?” Penny stares. “I thought Aramaic was a dead language.”

  “The monks at Mor Samuel speak it, too. Or they did.” The archaeologist sighs. “When my students in Istanbul think of Mardin now, they think of conflict. But for centuries, Jews, Christians, Muslims, and Yazidis farmed together in these hills, ate together, bought each other’s pots, and mended each other’s carpets.”

  “Istanbul used to be like that, too, didn’t it? My professor said that in the reign of Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror, only half the people in Constantinople were even Muslim. She said the Conqueror built bathhouses and markets, not just mosques, so all his subjects could benefit, no matter how they prayed.”

  “We shouldn’t make our past a fairy tale,” says the archaeologist. “This land has see
n no shortage of hard times. What country hasn’t? But never in my lifetime has it been as hard as this. I fear that loving Turkey is leaving your heart on the railroad tracks. Sooner or later, it will get crushed.”

  Penny crunches the empty water cup. The sadness threatens to suck her down. Redirect. “Are you coming to Mardin for research?”

  The archaeologist’s mouth is full of cracker; she nods.

  “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “You’re here, too, aren’t you? Besides, I must keep coming, for as long as I can. My colleague was researching the Ottoman public architecture of Damascus. Bazaars, schools, fountains. She used to fly down every couple of months for field research and bring her kids in the summer.” The archaeologist shakes her head. “Now . . .”

  “But that won’t happen here.” Penny feels her stomach turn and tells herself it’s just car sickness. “Turkey won’t be another Syria. It can’t. Palamut’s no angel, but he’ll defend his borders.”

  The archaeologist raises her eyebrows. “Look what he let them do to the American Embassy.”

  Penny hugs her arms to her chest. “It’s not always possible to stop an attack.”

  “In the most secure building in the safest neighborhood in Ankara?” The archaeologist looks skeptical. “Canım, please. You don’t think those murderers had help from the inside?” She drops her voice. “Did you hear about the leak?”

  Penny leans closer. “What?”

  The archaeologist pulls out her phone. “It’s not in any of the Turkish press yet. They’re all too scared.” She loads the VPN. “Do you read English?”

  Penny nods.

  The archaeologist holds out her phone. “There’s a whisper going around Twitter that a journalist has credible evidence of Melek Palamut selling weapons to the Hashashin. Evidence from a U.S. government source.”

  “Melek selling weapons to the Hashashin?”

  “Can you believe it?” The archaeologist shakes her head. “I don’t like her father or her politics. But Melek Hanım always seemed the sanest of the bunch.”

  It takes Penny a long time to fall back asleep.

  28

  * * *

  THE ABODE OF WAR

  ANKARA, TURKEY

  04:23 LOCAL TIME

  “You cannot do this to me!” hisses Melek.

  “It wasn’t an official statement.” Christina’s voice comes through the phone calm and clear. “Just a little unauthorized leak.”

  “It is a forgery.” For the first time in many years, Melek is fighting back tears. “I would never help those terrorists. They murdered hundreds of my people. Women. Children! They are a stain on the very word Islam!”

  “Consider it a gentle warning.”

  Melek draws herself up, soldier straight. “In my country women bear the family honor. Do you think my father will stand by while you slander me?”

  “In your country poor women who are raped get murdered by their own fathers and brothers to keep the family honor pure.”

  “In your country police shoot schoolchildren for the color of their skin!”

  “In my country leaders can’t afford to be associated with terrorists,” says Christina calmly. “Your father will make an example of you. He’ll have no choice. Not unless he wants to be implicated in your criminal, terrorist activity.”

  “The only criminal thing I’ve ever done is talk to you.”

  “The leak doesn’t have to be substantiated. You can still make everything all right. I’m a reasonable woman, Melek. I’m just asking you to meet me halfway.”

  * * *

  ŞANLIURFA PROVINCE, TURKEY

  04:45 LOCAL TIME

  By the time the bus attendant returns with a plastic pouch of rubbery yellow cake, day has just begun to break. Light enough to distinguish a white thread from a dark. Shaggy brown goats nibble the lichen off ruined stone walls. Villages are no more than silhouettes, the softness of dawn smudging their TV aerials and cell towers into misleading timelessness.

  The archaeologist is fast asleep, so Penny stares out the streaked window. The violet clouds sizzle off, replaced by glaring heat. Penny can feel it through the glass. A scorcher.

  Soon, Penny can make out sharp, tawny cliffs in the distance, and the odd dusty concrete house.

  At eight thirty, the bus wheezes to a halt at Mardin’s new bus station. A long portico of bright red concrete arches contrasts weirdly with the bland white buses and parched concrete.

  For a moment, nauseating dread skewers Penny to her seat like a pin through a beetle.

  This is it.

  Last night in Ankara, her choice felt obvious, even heroic. Here, now, in this unfamiliar landscape, the danger feels horribly real. This city out the window—flat roofs and golden stone, sky-needling minarets—looks nothing like modern concrete Ankara.

  Only twenty miles away, at Mor Samuel, the Hashashin are holding Zach captive. She won’t let herself believe he might be dead.

  Her courage blazes back to life. If Zach’s alive, he needs her.

  Penny steps down from the bus, into the shimmering heat. It’s like climbing inside a kiln. She’s grateful for the thin shelter of her head scarf.

  “Take care.” The archaeologist shakes Penny’s hand and exclaims at the sight of the blue evil eye bracelet on her wrist. “A nazar boncuğu! You know, the Hittites used to use a pair of bull’s horns on the wall.”

  Penny smiles. “I guess a blue bead’s easier to wear than a pair of bull’s horns.”

  “Some places it’s the color red, or a touching wood or iron, or a silver hand at your throat. We humans love our apotropaic devices.”

  “We could all use a little luck.”

  “That is a corruption of the folklore,” says the archaeologist firmly. “The nazar boncuğu does not bring luck. It turns away the power of evil.”

  Penny shivers in the heat. “Inşallah,” she mumbles. God willing.

  “Do you need to share a taxi?” asks the archaeologist. “It’s not like Ankara here. Stupid men can get the wrong idea.”

  Penny points to Connor, who is climbing down from the bus. “I’m with my cousin.”

  “Good.” The archaeologist looks relieved. “I’m having tea with the director of the museum at four. Not many foreign students come here anymore. If you’re at the museum then, come knock on her office door. Ask for Lale.” She retrieves a tiny, modern Swiss suitcase and vanishes in a taxi.

  Connor hurries to Penny’s side. He seems surprisingly cheery; evidently, he’s one of nature’s early birds. She smiles, squinting in the intense light. “Enjoy your first Turkish bus ride?”

  “What’s up with the mandatory midnight snack?”

  “Are you saying you don’t enjoy a lovely Nescafé at three a.m.?”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever had a lovely Nescafé.” His smile fades. “Now. Our plan of attack.” They head toward the ribbon of shade cast by a minibus parked nearby. “They’re meeting us at the Recep teahouse, right near the Zinciriye, uh, medrese.” He uses the word for a religious school.

  “We have about twenty minutes.”

  “Just in case.” Connor presses five hundred-lira notes into her hand.

  “What’s this for?”

  “If anything goes wrong, you run. Promise me?”

  Penny starts to tuck the money in her pocket.

  “Not there,” Connor corrects. “Pickpockets.”

  Penny tucks the money into her bra strap. “Come on. Let’s get a taxi.”

  The flat-roofed golden stone houses of Mardin rise up the slopes to a castle-crowned citadel where Turkish military helicopters perch like sleeping dragonflies. Penny and Connor’s smoke-saturated taxi speeds uphill, trailing a plume of yellow dust. A white donkey staggers up the highway beside them, laden with an ugly nylon carpet and a dozen frozen chicken carcasses, wrapped in plastic. Penny cranes around to see. Who knew that there were still places on earth that looked like this?

  She notices that Connor hasn’t buckled his
seat belt. He perches on his seat as if he were in a helicopter about to make a jump, hand hovering over the door handle. Penny doesn’t have to ask why.

  Most buildings she’s seen in Ankara are cereal boxes of steel and grotty concrete. Mardin’s default is ornately carved sandstone structures, no more than a couple of stories high. Even the light is golden. The whole place looks like a film set of exaggerated medieval exoticism, except for the very ordinary pastry shops, hardware stores, and schizophrenically colorful bridal-couture emporia that fill the ground floors. The people running errands and sipping tea don’t look that different from Penny’s less prosperous neighbors in Ankara, except that more of the women are wearing white head scarves and more of the men are stooped over backgammon boards.

  This muted normality isn’t the way she’d imagined a town twenty miles from a war zone. How can people go about their lives with a Hashashin stronghold just over the border? And what about the hundreds of thousands of refugees billeted in this province? They’ve been dying of heatstroke this summer, just as they died of exposure last winter, unable to work, unable to study, forbidden to leave.

  As the taxi climbs the cobbles toward the historic center, where tour groups used to come when tour groups came here, Penny notices heaps of spices and baskets of Antep pistachios outside the buildings. The scene is eerily pretty. A spotless neon HALK BANK sign glows beneath a golden sandstone balustrade on the façade of what looks like a Renaissance palace. Outside, kids in knockoff boy-band T-shirts are wheedling their dad for Max Duo chocolate ice pops.

  The taxi pulls up in front of an imposing medieval building with two fluted domes of golden stone. Beneath the intricately carved geometric muqarnas of the arched doorway, a toothless old man with a large key around his neck is thumbing a string of tespih beads.

  “İşte Zinciriye Medresesi,” says the driver.