Liar's Candle

by August Thomas

  Zach takes this news much better than Penny would have expected. “He’s my cousin. He wants to be President. I’m sure he would prefer to keep this quiet.”

  “Unfortunately for both of you, Mr. Cabot, your cousin has no authority to do so. America can hardly continue holding the Embassy bombing over our heads if not only a senior CIA official but also the Secretary of State’s own cousin are directly implicated.”

  Zach has mustered his wits, and his deepest, most charming voice. “I don’t think you realize what a valuable friend I can be, Melek. My consulting firm will be handling huge volumes of classified information. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”

  Melek stands up. “What is it you people say? ‘We don’t negotiate with terrorists.’ ”

  Zach grins. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

  “The thing about traitors, Mr. Cabot, is that they can’t be trusted. You betrayed your own people. Why wouldn’t you betray me?”

  “I don’t know anything these two don’t know. The difference is, I have a working relationship with you to protect.”

  “Work with you?” Melek looks disgusted. “I know about your dealings with the Kurdish rebels, Mr. Cabot.”

  “Exactly,” Zach says quickly. “I have an open line of communication—”

  Melek crosses her arms. “I’m finished clutching at snakes.”

  “What if I told you there’s hard proof of everything Christina did,” says Zach. “Not only what she did with the Hashashin?”

  Penny holds her breath. She doesn’t dare even look at Connor.

  “If you had that,” says Melek, “you wouldn’t be here.”

  Zach points at Connor. “He’s got it. Search him. It’s on a microchip, inside an evil eye bead.”

  “Really.” Melek’s expression is profoundly skeptical.

  “I deliver,” declares Zach.

  Melek nods slightly. Two guards pull Connor into a standing position and pat him down. They’re well-trained and thorough, pulling out his pockets and unlacing his shoes.

  Penny watches, motionless. What can she do?

  Connor stands like a scarecrow, face blank. No one speaks. Zach’s heavy, eager breathing fills the silence.

  The guards pat down Connor’s back, his shoulders, his arms. They’re almost at the bandage on his wrist.

  “Stop!” Penny bursts into tears. “Stop, please! I can’t stand it.”

  Everyone stares at her.

  “I lied, okay? I lied!” Penny meets Zach’s eyes, lip trembling. “I knew you wouldn’t help me find Connor—unless you thought he had it. When I realized what it was, I got scared. I threw the real one away. At the caravanserai.”

  “If that’s true,” says Melek, “then why are you here?”

  Penny says simply, “Connor.”

  “Oh, please,” says Zach. “Don’t believe a word she says. Why would she throw away something so valuable?”

  Penny turns tearfully to Melek. “I was terrified! You kidnapped me. Christina tried to blow us up.” She gulps. “I thought maybe if I got rid of it, I’d be safe. I thought maybe it would all be over.”

  Melek looks unconvinced. She turns to her guards. “Var mı?”

  “Yok,” declares one of the guards, stepping away from Connor.

  “Well, Mr. Cabot?” says Melek.

  “Search the girl!” splutters Zach. “She’s lying. They must have swapped it!”

  Melek’s lips purse. “Mr. Cabot . . .”

  “Go ahead and search me,” says Penny, straightening her shoulders. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  The guards’ hands are brisk and professional, as if she were made of dynamite. They don’t meet her eyes.

  One of them holds up her left wrist, with the evil eye bead on it.

  “Ha!” Zach strides over, unclips the bracelet, and hands it to Melek.

  The President’s daughter holds the evil eye up to the light. “There’s nothing. Only glass.”

  “İki yüz lira.” One of the guards searching Penny holds up a few warm, folded bills. “That’s it.”

  They step away from Penny.

  Melek raises a single eyebrow. “Well, Mr. Cabot?”

  Zach turns on Penny. His expression hits her like a lead pipe. Hate and rage, untainted by charm or artifice or hope. “You. Lying. Bitch.”

  Two of Melek’s guards grab him and haul him, kicking and yelling, into an adjoining room.

  “Who’d you give it to?” Zach screams. “Where is it?”

  Penny catches sight of what looks like a surgical table. The door slams shut behind them.

  “Stop!” Penny jumps up. “What are you going to do to him?”

  “That is not your concern.” Melek nods to her guards, who grab Penny and Connor by both arms and haul them toward the stairs.

  “He needs to stand trial, ma’am.” Connor’s voice is raw.

  “That won’t be necessary,” says Melek.

  From the adjoining room comes a single, muffled shot.

  “Take it.” Melek tosses the evil eye bracelet back to Penny. “I don’t believe in luck.”

  44

  * * *

  THE ÇIRAĞAN PALACE KEMPINSKI

  ÇIRAĞAN PALACE KEMPINSKI, ISTANBUL

  20:10 LOCAL TIME

  By 8:10 p.m., so many black-armbanded diplomats and staffers are crammed into Secretary Winthrop’s suite at the Çırağan Palace Kempinski that it resembles a funeral reception populated entirely by jittery workaholics. Outside, Diplomatic Security special agents prowl the marble balconies and crowd the corridor. Everyone is on high alert. Moe is consulting with five members of his staff, each stressing about a different last-minute disaster. Brenda is in a huddle with what remains of the political team. At the center of it all, the charismatic Secretary of State leans back in a satiny armchair, flipping through talking points. A young female staffer who flew over with Winthrop from Foggy Bottom hurries to the Secretary’s side, proffering a phone. “Sir, it’s Mr. Lerman for you.”

  “Jimena, right?” Winthrop flashes a benign-but-commanding twinkle.

  “Yes, sir.” She blushes, delighted.

  Winthrop knows all his staffers’ names. It’s a pain, but, hey—ten minutes every morning with that flash-card app, and your staffers tell Politico you’re the nicest boss they ever had. “Not the best moment, Jimena.”

  “Sir, I’m so sorry, but Mr. Lerman says it’s extremely urgent.”

  Winthrop sighs, takes the phone, and veers into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “Frank. Make it fast.”

  “So, so sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Secretary.” Frank Lerman sounds miserable. “I had to be sure to catch you before the keynote. They’ve got a tentative ID on the failed motorcycle bomber in Kadıköy. And I don’t know how much longer I can get the Turks to keep it quiet.”

  “Why would we keep that quiet? Can we get a nice cooperation angle? America helps Turkey catch the bad guys?”

  “Mr. Secretary . . .” Frank’s voice is hollow. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”

  Sixty seconds later, Winthrop hangs up. He’s barely had time to exhale when he feels a buzz from his jacket pocket—his private cell. Christina. Thank God. She’ll know what to do. He pulls out the phone. Caller ID blocked. He can count on his right hand how many people have this number. He presses talk and tries to sound tough. “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice fills his ear. Not Christina. Not his wife. Not his mistress. Sweet, cultured, slightly foreign sounding. “Secretary Winthrop. I’m so glad I caught you.”

  “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  The answer makes him sit heavily on the edge of the bed. But his voice remains confident. “What an unexpected pleasure, Ms. Palamut. What can I do for you?”

  A pause.

  Color drains from Winthrop’s face. “What?” He swallows. “I’ll have to ask you to verify that.”

  A text message beep.

  The body in the photo is unmistaka
ble. Right in the forehead.

  Winthrop can hardly keep the giddy relief out of his voice. “At least it was quick.” His manner becomes almost jolly, as if they’d just signed a satisfactorily lopsided treaty. “Well, that’s most considerate. Thank you. I would appreciate that very much. And I’m sure my government will show their appreciation.”

  Winthrop holds the phone tight to his ear, listening. When he speaks again, his voice is grim. “You realize that goes directly against our policy.”

  Another pause.

  “I see.” Winthrop sticks out his chin. “Well, under the circumstances that seems extremely . . . reasonable.” He closes his eyes in resignation—then opens them with a start. “What? Right now?”

  Winthrop steps up to the high window. Commotion on the Bosphorus. A Turkish police launch splashes through the empty red waters around the Kempinski, scattering indignant cormorants into the twilight.

  Winthrop shoves the phone in his pocket and steps back into the anteroom, a huge, convincing grin across his face. “Down to the dock, everyone! We’ve got some very special guests!”

  “Mr. Secretary?” Brenda hurries across to him.

  “Congratulations!” Winthrop claps her on the back. At 6’3”, he towers over her. “I had to keep the operation quiet until I was sure. But I want you to be the first to know.”

  Brenda looks up at him. “Sir?”

  Winthrop beams. “Penny Kessler’s coming home.”

  * * *

  ÇIRAĞAN PALACE KEMPINSKI, ISTANBUL

  20:31 LOCAL TIME

  Penny leans into the cool spray as the police launch draws up to the wrought-iron water gate of the Kempinski. Not sad. Not scared. Not even angry anymore. Connor sits silently beside her. All the way down the Bosphorus, they haven’t dared speak—not with Melek’s guards on either side.

  “Connor.” Penny nervously twists the evil eye bracelet on her wrist. “Is that . . . ?”

  Framed in the water gate, wide fatherly smiles glued to their faces, stand Secretary Winthrop and President Palamut.

  The launch bumps against the dock. Policemen usher Penny and Connor ashore. As the cameras flash, Red Crescent workers drape silver blankets around their shoulders.

  The Secretary of State clasps Penny’s hand. Dark wavy hair, intent brown eyes, that smile. Winthrop’s a good twelve years older than Zach, but in person, the resemblance is striking. “Welcome back, Penny,” he says in a heartfelt stage whisper, and turns to Connor. “You’ve done well, young man.”

  Penny grabs Connor’s arm. “He’s—” She hesitates.

  “Our Turkish Agricultural Policy and Food Security desk officer.” Winthrop shakes his hand. “I know all about you.”

  Connor is visibly startled. “Yes, sir.”

  “This brave young man was kidnapped by the Hashashin while trying to protect Miss Kessler,” says Secretary Winthrop loudly, clasping Connor’s shoulder. “Welcome back, son. The Department of State is very proud of you.”

  Penny and Connor exchange a look.

  President Palamut strides down the dock, trailing Prime Minister Bolu and a gaggle of aides.

  “Things are extremely delicate,” whispers Winthrop. “Please don’t say anything.”

  Cameras press in close around Penny as President Palamut steps up beside her.

  * * *

  HUBER MANSION, KALENDER, ISTANBUL

  20:42 LOCAL TIME

  In the dry and muffled stillness of the basement corridor, Melek’s ballet flats pad noiselessly along the hard blue carpet.

  Winthrop had melted like woolly pişmaniye cotton candy under a faucet. Victory. But it felt as triumphant as squashing a slug in her fist, and just as dirty.

  Her father will come out stronger, Melek tells herself. What else matters? So what if she didn’t get the microchip? The information her new prisoner can give more than makes up for the loss.

  She quickens her pace.

  Chipped and dynamited out of the limestone bed of the Bosphorus in the dying days of the nineteenth century, the old basements of the Huber Mansion used to resemble abandoned mine shafts—all rotting wood and dripping stone, soggy forgotten files, and the odd Prussian rifle bleeding rust. But last year’s renovation pumped the old stone with concrete and hammered smooth drywall down the decaying halls. It’s the only kind of renovation her father believes in: the kind that obliterates. It’s clean down here now. Comfortable. They even put a TV in the cell. She can hear it—the canned distortion of her father’s voice.

  There’s a one-way mirror set in the cell door.

  Melek’s breath doesn’t fog it; it’s too warm down here for that.

  Inside, Zach Robson lounges on what looks like a hospital bed. The guards have wiped the fake blood off his forehead, but carelessly, leaving an absurd pink smear across his tan as if he’d had his face painted at a children’s party. His hands and ankles are zip-tied, but he’s otherwise unconfined. Two guards sit watch, guns resting on their knees. But their eyes are on the TV.

  President Palamut’s face fills the large flatscreen. Beside him, clutching the Red Crescent blanket around her shoulders, Penny looks pale and dazed. She glances occasionally up at Secretary Winthrop, as if for reassurance.

  Even without a microphone, President Palamut’s voice resonates. “When we recaptured Mor Samuel from the terrorists, we discovered that a fraud had been perpetrated at the hospital by Kurdish doctors plotting against our national security. These villains will be punished!”

  Secretary Winthrop visibly tries not to wince. Prime Minister Bolu is attempting to get into the frame, but no matter how he maneuvers, somehow Palamut’s security seems to be in the way.

  “Look at this young woman!” Palamut grabs Penny’s hand and holds it up like a trophy, ignoring the way she flinches. The iconic image of Flag Girl flashes in the upper corner of the screen.

  Palamut turns theatrically to Penny. “What is your name?”

  Penny’s voice comes out hoarse, but startlingly strong. “Penny Kessler.”

  A huge cheer from off camera.

  “You see!” roars Palamut. “Penny Kessler did not die, as the Kurdish terrorists tried to deceive us into believing! She was kidnapped by the Hashashin and taken to Mor Samuel monastery as a hostage.”

  It’s Winthrop’s turn. “When the terrorists destroyed Mor Samuel monastery, a U.S. Foreign Service officer, Zachary Robson, was tragically killed. America will grieve the loss of this brave, promising young man. Zachary died as he lived: in service to his country. I understand the loss all too well.” Winthrop bows his head. “Now that his parents have been informed, I can tell the world that my own first cousin John Winthrop Cabot was also murdered in the July 4th attack on our Embassy. My family’s sacrifice has only increased my resolve to continue fighting to keep the United States of America strong and proud.”

  In the comfortable sanctuary of the basement, Zach Robson laughs until he can hardly breathe.

  Melek pulls open the cell door, sending the guards lurching to their feet. “Enough.” She scowls at the guards. “Televizyonu kapatın.”

  They obediently switch it off.

  “Melek Hanım.” Zach grins up at her. “Make yourself at home.”

  Her silent stare holds nothing but contempt.

  “This doesn’t have to be an interrogation. I cooperated. Your guards can tell you. I want to help.”

  She turns to the guards. “Wait outside.”

  They look worried. “Melek Hanım . . .”

  “Merak etmeyin,” she assures them.

  Unconvinced, the senior guard extends his gun, grip first.

  “Tamam.” She takes it.

  The door whispers shut.

  Zach leans toward her. “We should be allies.”

  Melek is silent for a moment, twisting her long fingers together. “This morning, before I flew to Istanbul, I went to the children’s hospital in Ankara. Some of your little victims have no hands. Some lost their eyes. Some of them had their legs r
ipped off. One little boy—he’s in a coma. But you killed both his parents, so his grandmother sits with him alone.” Tears gather in her eyes. “And those are the children who survived.”

  Zach stands up. “Thanks to those children’s sacrifice, your country will be stronger.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I heard the speeches. From now on, my cousin will be your father’s biggest advocate in Washington. Don’t pretend you aren’t happy about that.”

  Melek levels the gun at his chest. “Sit down.”

  He doesn’t move. “You should be thanking me. If it weren’t for what I did at the Embassy, I wouldn’t be here now.” As his confidence grows, his voice takes on its old charm. “And you wouldn’t have the best source on the CIA you’re ever going to get.”

  “You’re a terrorist.”

  “I’m a pragmatist,” says Zach. “And so are you. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m interrogating a criminal.”

  “Is that why you had the guards step outside?”

  Melek says nothing.

  “You don’t have to put on the righteous princess act for me. I know who you are, Melek. You’re not sentimental. You do whatever it takes to get what you want. Same as me.”

  “I don’t murder innocents.”

  “Just think of them as martyrs.”

  Melek presses the gun to his forehead. She cocks it. Her expression has not changed; she’s far too disciplined. But her breath, more honest, is ragged with rage.

  Zach’s eyes meet hers. “If you were going to kill me, you already would have.”

  For a moment, Melek simply looks at him. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “I’m not going to kill you, Mr. Cabot.” She lowers the gun. “You’re already dead.”

  “If this is heaven, I’m a few virgins short.”

  “I hear that you set great store by your charm.” Melek walks toward the door. “I thought you’d talk more easily if you thought you were winning.” She looks back at him. “I’ve changed my mind.” She opens the door. “Gelin buraya.”

  The guards stand at attention.

  “You want my information.” For the first time, Zach sounds agitated. “You can’t just leave me here.”