I thought it was an illusion induced by panic when I saw a square-jawed man with a crew cut amidst the celebrants as I sliced through the crowd. He reminded me of a man I’d seen in Orlando, and I thought I saw a glint of recognition in his eyes. Most everyone else’s attention was focused on the belly dancers, who had just begun their act. I passed unhindered into the Second Court.
The impulse to run was still there but I resisted. A running woman would alert the guards. Once I passed through the Gate of Greeting to the park outside, I could book.
I sped back to the Basilica. In my room I did breathing exercises to regain a semblance of tranquility. I wanted nothing more than to change clothes, go outside, and run, run, run until all the fear, misgivings and tension dissolved in streams of sweat.
Discretion demanded that I stay put. I couldn’t be sure how Beck would react. He might do nothing. He might go looking for me with vengeance in mind. He knew my hotel was near enough to Topkapi for me to walk there.
He might go to the cops and claim he was assaulted and robbed. They wouldn’t find Violet Williams but it wouldn’t take them long to locate a tall, slim, blonde-haired American woman. They’d make an extra effort since Beck was an influential figure in the politics of Istanbul. On the other hand, he might not want to bring in the authorities. Violet’s accusation that he was trading sex for adoption would be unwelcome, especially because he was already known to be operating outside the strict letter of the law, leastwise, Islamic law.
The best thing for me to do was leave Turkey as soon as possible. It was too late for me to call the airlines in Istanbul. They don’t operate on a 24/7 basis like airlines in the U.S. But I could place an international call to Delta in the States. I did so, and the earliest they could get me on a flight to the U.S. was Sunday. Saturday’s flight was fully booked in all classes.
I considered flying somewhere just to be out of Istanbul and Beck’s reach. Maybe Cairo or Rome. But wasn’t I being irrational? Unless he had brass balls—and I didn’t hear them clang—Mr. Sad Sack would have trouble walking to the toilet, let alone hunting me down. I did a few more breathing exercises, then called Delta back and booked myself onto Sunday’s flight.
Under the strong light in the bathroom, I removed Beck’s pubic hairs from my bag with my eyebrow tweezers and placed them in a pill bottle. I couldn’t say getting them was an easy way to earn a couple of Gs. Of course, I hadn’t earned the money yet. Ashley had to be convinced that Beck was one of her rapists, but his proclivity for the crime, and the intense pleasure it gave him, informed against him. How many victims of his carnal perversions were walking in the world?
It was well into the wee hours before I fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamed of sexual violence. The worst of these dreams was a faceless rape in which the sexual organs undulated in and out of focus like a cheaply made porno flick. At the end, the man ejaculated a fountain of blood, which washed over the sheets and became a river, and both man and victim were swept away. Finally I saw the faces. Afloat in the sea of blood were Thompson Beck and Ashley Bloodworth.
I awoke full of self-reproach. Though I had harmed Beck in patent self-defense, the entire scenario left me feeling soulless. Groggily, over breakfast, I tried to make sense of my dreams. The violence against Beck was bloodless but I may have had Ernest’s blood-soaked demise in my subconscious, where logic doesn’t always reign.
“I am not guilty,” I repeated to myself, emphasizing each word. “Self-preservation is not wrong.” By repeating these admonitions, lubricated with several cups of Nescafé instant coffee, I raised my spirits to the point where I could think about how to pass the day. In fact, I raised my spirits to so incautious a level that I contemplated leaving the hotel, rationalizing that Beck would be unlikely to launch a search and destroy mission in broad daylight.
I wanted to shop at the Grand Bazaar. It’s the largest covered market in the world, comprising more than four thousand shops on several miles of streets. It also contains mosques, banks, police stations, restaurants and workshops. The nearest entrance is a ten-minute walk from the hotel. I could pass a pleasant day meandering in and out of the stores, eating lunch when I got hungry, and watching people from around the world test their bargaining skills against those of the merchants.
The market was very touristy. Touts badgered tour groups as they climbed down from their buses. The entrances to the bazaar teemed with T-shirt hawkers and rug merchants. The day was unseasonably warm and humid, but the change in weather hadn’t penetrated the roof and walls of the enormous structure. Inside it was cool and dry. Away from the entrances in the central portion of the bazaar, the crowds were less thick.
When a person visits the bazaar for the first time it gives every impression of a maze. To the uninitiated eye, every souvenir shop or cell phone store looks like every other one. After a few turns you’d swear you were back where you started, and you might or might not be.
In fact, the bazaar is sensibly laid out. The tiny streets and alleys run parallel or perpendicular to one another. There are no dead ends and at the center is the clearly demarcated Old Bazaar.
I walked to the Old Bazaar, which was old when Istanbul was Constantinople. From there, I wound outwards, taking time to examine wares ranging from gems to leather goods to the latest European fashions.
Many shopkeepers invited me in for the ever-present tulip-glass of tea, and when I got tired I’d take one up on the offer. One time I sat in a shop of souvenirs with the proprietor, a friendly young man who wanted to practice his English. We had a bizarre conversation in which he’d speak English and I’d speak Turkish, each helping the other with grammar and pronunciation.
As I sat sipping tea and improving my language skills, I noticed that every few minutes the same two men would walk by. If you stand in one place in the Grand Bazaar, you’ll often see the same people several times. That’s because they’re lost. By the third time, their faces will have the perplexed look that rats in mazes would have, if rats had facial expressions. But these guys didn’t look perplexed; they looked menacing.
Besides, they were Turks. Turks do not get lost in their Grand Bazaar any more than rabbits get lost in their own warrens. One man, the dominant member of the duo, for he walked ever so slightly in front of the other, was tall for a Turk, nearly six feet. He had an ugly scar on one cheek. The other was of average height, thin with a face that tapered into a pointy nose. They appeared to be in their thirties. I didn’t think they were out shopping.
I asked my companion in English if he had ever seen them as they passed by a fourth time trying to look casual. He hadn’t.
“If they do frighten you, I will call the police,” he offered.
I didn’t want to deal with the police because I didn’t know what had happened to Beck after our encounter. He might, for all I knew, have been found off limits by the palace guards and been obliged to make a police report. He may have filed a complaint against me. In that case, the police, if they found me, would prevent me from leaving the country until the matter was settled.
It was also possible, even likely, that the two men might want nothing more than a chance to pick me up. Blonde women have the reputation—greatly embellished in the fantasies of Turkish males—of being attracted to dark-skinned men. Whatever the case, reason dictated that I should leave the bazaar at once.
When I judged they were halfway through the cycle that would bring them back to the souvenir shop, I thanked the young man for his hospitality and left. I walked as speedily as the density of shoppers permitted, taking first one street, then another, always bearing toward the exit closest to my hotel.
I was a rabbit in a warren with weasels on the loose. As I rounded a corner, the two men came up on either side of me. The tall man took my right arm at the same time that the other one stuck the silver barrel of a .22 caliber revolver in my ribs.
“Come with us or be shot,” said Scarface. Ferret face punctuated the command with a jab of the gun barrel.
The .22 is a quiet pistol. I could have been shot in a vital organ and the report gone unnoticed while the men escaped. Many scoff at the low caliber. They forget that Sirhan Sirhan used a .22 to assassinate Robert F. Kennedy with one shot to the head. For the moment, I’d have to go along. If the gun bearer relaxed his concentration for an instant, I’d make my move. Once out of the crowds, my future was dim.
They ushered me toward the east gate that led out in front of the Light of Osman Mosque. If I could help myself in no other way, I’d sprint for the mosque. I might get shot, but it’s a rare Muslim, gangster or no, that will commit violence under the eye of Allah.
The men held steady. As the exit came into sight I heard my name called. In front of me were the four Scots I’d helped home the other night. They came toward us in open-armed greeting. When they were near, I said in rapid English, “HelpmeI’mbeingkidnapped.” I rotated my body as I spoke, exposing the revolver.
The weasel hesitated, not knowing what to do for a second, but he recovered quickly. He brandished the gun, sweeping the barrel back and forth from one man to the other, and finally pointed it directly at the rugby player.
“Out of way!” he threatened.
The big man’s eyebrows rose and his hands came up palms out and arms spread. The hoods had disregarded the woman, to their regret. Presto, her foot exploded into the hand holding the gun. The little pistol looped through the air and landed six feet away. Its owner scrambled after it just as the great Scot launched a straight right fist into the nose of his partner. There was a crunching sound and a cry of pain. The man staggered backward, looking for his friend. The weasel was bending over to retrieve his firearm when the foot flashed again, catching him on the forehead and jerking him upright. The other two Scotsmen closed in on him and he fled. His partner, hand over face, followed close behind. I snatched up the pistol and tucked it into the waistband behind my back under my shirt.
“Truly brilliant, lass,” said one of the guys.
“You nailed him straight,” said another.
“A Rocky Balboa to the rescue,” I added, with a nod to the puncher, who was massaging the knuckles of his right hand.
“Ooh, I like to do a wee bit of boxing of a morning,” said the Scot modestly. “But come, Dagny, give us the straight skinny.”
The fracas happened so fast that few people noticed. The ones who did were standing agape, not knowing what to do or say. To my tremendous relief, no cops showed up.
“Let’s get away from here,” I said.
We went into the Bazaar a short way and found a café where we could sit. “Drinks are on me, mates. You’re my saviors.”
We ordered beer and the Scots waited politely for “the skinny” that I could not give them. I was sure my kidnappers were henchmen of Beck’s. True, women are on rare occasions abducted in public and assaulted, especially fair-haired ones. It’s true, too, that there is a tiny amount of Kurdish-inspired terrorism that might take the form of a kidnapping. But these incidents are isolated enough to be discounted.
I couldn’t figure why a man who ran an orphanage, even a slime-bag like Beck, would employ thugs. On the other hand, he knew the city. The children he rescued—I couldn’t resolve the dissonance of rape and rescue—came from the roughest suburbs where such men were for hire. Apparently he hired them, and they tracked me. It was the only explanation that made sense.
I told my rescuers that as far as I knew, it was abduction with a sexual agenda. What else could it be? They didn’t buy it, I could tell, but they didn’t press the issue. To them I’d always be the mysterious American woman they saved from harm. Their friendship with one another would be cemented by having shared in the experience.
In the café, I learned that the girl was a former Olympic gymnast. To stay limber and fit, she practiced several of the martial arts, including Thai kickboxing. And the mighty Scot, as I came to think of him, was, in fact, a rugby player.
The beer and conversation restored my nerve. I didn’t think I’d be accosted again. I repeated my thanks and made to leave. They wouldn’t hear of it.
“Don’t argue with the mighty Scot,” said the mighty Scot, for I had shared my nickname with him. I believe that all four would have slept in my room if I’d asked, but once back at the Basilica I knew I’d feel safe. Uncle Husnu always had one or two sturdy bellmen around. I kissed and hugged each Scot, standing on my tiptoes to reach the mighty Scot, and bending to hug the little kickboxer. We exchanged e-mail addresses and promised to write each other.
“One day,” said the mighty Scot, “I’d like to know the rest of the story, if ever you feel like telling it.”
I gave him an extra hug and ran my hand through his hair.
“You’re a hunk, big boy. Maybe we’ll meet again. Thanks. Thanks to you all.” I got a little choked up, turned and went inside and gave them one last wave.
“I see you’ve made some nice friends, my little poppy,” said Uncle, who had sidled up to me as I was waving goodbye to the Scots. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself. I wish you could stay longer.”
“I’m thankful for the time I spent with you, Uncle. I’ll try to come back, I promise. And you know, you could come to America. The hotel will survive without you. Come during the off-season. You’re welcome any time. John would love to see you again.”
I told Uncle that I had work to do in my room and that I’d have supper sent up. I didn’t intend to hazard the streets anymore. I asked the concierge to order a cab for early next morning. My flight to the U.S. left at ten. I’d stirred up far more trouble than I could possibly have imagined and I was ill at ease.
My room was at the far end of a long corridor. I was halfway to it when I heard a rustling behind me. It was the two ruffians from the Grand Bazaar. Even at a distance I could see the swollen, discolored face on the larger of the two men. I screamed even as I remembered that Uncle had put me in an unoccupied corridor, and that I might as well save my breath. We all began to run at once, I for the safety of my room, they for the repossession of my person.
CHAPTER 20
I dug out my room key on the dead run, but they’d be upon me while I coped with the lock. At the end of the corridor was a door that I knew led to the ancient underground reservoir—the Cistern Basilica. It was my only chance of escape. I dashed up to it, tore it open and slipped inside, slamming it shut behind me.
The moment the door closed I was in pitch dark. I knew there was a stairway leading down to the water but I couldn’t see a thing. The stone stairs were uneven and treacherously slick from the underground dampness. Fearful of falling, I felt for them with my toe, expecting the door behind me to burst open any second.
The men thought they had the pig in the poke. They ran up to the door but they weren’t in any kind of a hurry to get in. Teasing me seemed like more fun. One said to the other in Turkish, “The infidel sow is hiding in the linen closet. We’ve got her now.” They both laughed. Then he spoke loudly in English, “You may come quickly now out or we go in and whack you blue-and-black.” There was more laughter.
That was the last I heard of linen closets and beatings. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light from below enough for me to negotiate the stairs. At the bottom was a raised walkway that led to the main entrance of the reservoir, the only way out other than the way I’d come in. But I’d noticed on a previous night that the main entrance was gated shut. If I ran to it now and couldn’t get through the barrier, I’d be trapped like a rat in a cage. Escape could only be via the back stairs I’d just come down.
I was looking about for a corner in which to hide when I spotted the two dories that were used to show the reservoir to hotel residents. They were moored in the shallow water a few yards from the foot of the stairs.
I unloosed one boat and shoved it into the darkness. I got in the other boat and pushed off in the opposite direction. As my boat glided into the gloom, I strained my ears for signs of the two men.
The sound of cursing came soon enou
gh, followed by the squeaking of rubber soles on wet stone. They didn’t bother to keep their voices low as they were speaking in Turkish and would hardly expect me to understand.
They knew they were in the Cistern Basilica. The ancient reservoir, though primarily a tourist attraction, is well known to Istanbulers. One man asked the other why it was deserted. His friend replied that perhaps business was poor. It was apparent that they had assumed I’d escaped via the main entrance—a fact I was counting on—and both began to run on the walkway that led to it.
I had let my boat drift a fair distance from the stairs, though they were my only path to safety. As soon as the men took off running for the main entrance, I began to row frantically back to the mooring. But the flat-bottomed dory, which was happy to glide in a straight line under the impetus of a shove, moved haltingly when I manned the oars. Before I could get back, the men discovered that the main entrance was barred and knew that I must still be in the cavern.
They were rushing back to the stairway. They cast gray silhouettes in the meager light—short Weasel a step ahead of tall Scarface. My race with them would end in a tie, I judged, and in this league a tie was a loss. I retreated to a dark corner, and lest reflections off my hair, jewelry or clothes give me away, lay down in the dory.
In this position I planned to cogitate my next move, but as I slid flat something dug into the small of my back. It was the .22 pistol. I’d completely forgotten about it. This would alter the rules of the game.
I was in a far corner of the cistern behind two plinths carved with Medusa heads, one notably upside down. It’s a popular photo subject with tourists. Now, the blocks of carved stone gave me a temporary hiding place, and very temporary it was. My adversaries, aware that the only way out was the way we’d all come in, were stalking me. Each took a different walkway, staring into the murky gloom for clues to my whereabouts. The supporting columns cast obfuscating shadows, and the men had to search painstakingly to make sure that they kept between the exit and me.
Where Evil Lurks Page 16
