by Diana Renn
“Thank you,” Inspector Lale said when I was done talking. “This is all extremely useful to know. Is that everything, then?” She continued to look at me, drumming her polished nails on the table.
“Yes,” I said. “Everything.” I swallowed hard. I averted my gaze while she continued to stare, and I picked at a hangnail on my own hand. Did she suspect I was holding back on one piece of information that might be useful?
“So what do you think Sage did?” Mom asked her, breaking the awkward silence that hung in the air.
“The question is not so much what she did as who she is,” said Inspector Lale. “Or who she isn’t.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There is no record of a Sage Powell having entered this country with a US passport. Or any passport,” said Inspector Lale. “There is, apparently, no Sage Powell at all. We have been researching this since you gave us Sage’s name yesterday.”
“Wait. What? I don’t get it,” I said.
“I hope you’re not suggesting my daughter invented her as a way to clear her own name,” Mom said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “We all met the girl. She exists.”
“Then the name is false,” said Inspector Lale. “The closest match we found is an Amy Miller, whose face came up in a photo recognition scan. We compared it to a security camera photo we have of Sage at the dock in Marmaris.”
Inspector Lale took out a new paper from her satchel: a photocopy of a passport.
We all leaned forward to look. The girl in the picture was definitely Sage, or the person I’d met as Sage. Birthplace: Hawthorne, Oregon. She’d told the Clarksons that she was from Rosedale. Another lie.
I looked at the name on the passport copy again. Amy Miller. “I know that name!” I exclaimed.
“You do?” Inspector Lale looked at me intently.
“I forgot to mention one thing. Sage gave me a book before she left. A book by a writer named Freya Stark. This name, Amy Miller, was written inside the cover. I just thought it was a used book.” I stared at that name on the passport copy now. Her real name seemed more like an alias than her alias did. Too ordinary a name for a complicated person. In my mind, she was still Sage.
“Amy Miller was an exchange student at the Istanbul International School earlier this year, taking some classes there, which she paid full tuition to enroll in,” Inspector Lale went on, putting the photocopy back in her satchel. “But she dropped out of the program in January.”
Dropped out! So the late paper was another deception. Facts soured into lies and swirled in my head. Sage had mentioned she’d been sick and missed some school, but that wasn’t the same thing as dropping out. The story of her teacher who was obsessed with the Lycians—was that a lie, too? And why had she changed her name?
Disbelief gave way to anger. Sage—Amy—had lied to me and to my family about so many things. Here we’d been trying so hard to avoid hustlers, ever since we got to Turkey, but I’d been cruising with the biggest con artist of all, right on our own boat.
“Amy’s extended student visa has become invalid,” Inspector Lale went on. “Which means she has overstayed her ninety-day tourist visa. Passport control will be very interested in her when and if she decides to leave the country.”
I ran through the facts in my mind. Fethiye had been crawling with police and coast guard officials. Orhan had said they’d been boarding some of the boats, looking at passenger lists. If she’d gotten on the boat with a fake document, or if the crew had let her slide in, she could have been in serious trouble for that alone. And if she had something else to cover up—like criminal activity with a smuggling network—she’d be in even more hot water.
“She already left the country,” Mom insisted.
“Or did she?” said Aunt Jackie, looking questioningly at Inspector Lale.
Inspector Lale shook her head. “Likely not. Passport control would have caught the alert on her. They should have given her a large fine for overstaying and for not reporting her change of circumstances to the Istanbul police. So either a lenient customs officer dozed on the job, or, more likely, Amy Miller is still here in the country, maybe lying low until all this blows over.”
“So you want to haul her in about the overstayed visa?” guessed Aunt Jackie.
“Among other things, yes.” Inspector Lale snapped her satchel closed. “She allegedly bought figurines of uncertain origin, with no paperwork, and then gave them to you, secretively, before disappearing. That is certainly enough grounds for me to desire a conversation with her. Besides, smugglers rarely work alone. She may be a low-ranking person in a network, but she may also know people higher up. I believe she could tell us a great deal.”
“What about the security guards that grabbed me in Marmaris?” I asked. “They wanted to find her, too. Do you think they could be involved in some way?”
“They could be bounty hunters looking for smugglers,” she said. “Or they could be smugglers themselves, posing as security guards. I am having my colleagues look into both possibilities. It is very helpful to us that you had at least their first names.”
“If you trust first names,” I grumbled, still pissed about the whole Sage/Amy alias thing.
I sank into my chair, deep in thought. If Lazar and Vasil, or whoever they really were, turned out to be smugglers, too, then Sage could have been running from them, not just from the law. She might have done something to go against them and needed to get away. Fast.
But if she’d been working with them, why would she be on our boat, and not on the Anilar with her coworkers? Or—I shuddered—was that really why the Anilar was near us so often? Did Lazar and Vasil have some kind of say in its itinerary? Did they need to keep Sage in their sight while she went around the coast buying stolen loot from baklava vendors?
I didn’t know how to draw the line between circumstances and events and form a constellation that made sense.
“If she bought these figurines for someone else, then why would she put them in my bag?” I asked. “It’s not like I’d know who to deliver them to. I feel like she wanted me to get caught with these.”
“I have a theory,” said Inspector Lale, leaning forward. “Let’s suppose she thought the police were coming too close. She needed to unload some illegally purchased objects in a hurry. Smugglers are known for separating their caches, so that if they are caught, at least a portion remains, which someone else can be directed to retrieve. So she might expect you to have made it through security somehow—maybe assuming your aunt, as an archaeologist’s widow, would be able to vouch for them and for you in some way if you ran into any trouble. Perhaps she is expecting you will return the figurines to her. You did say she planned to meet up with you again in Istanbul?”
I nodded. Inspector Lale had the exact same theory I did. Sage had seemed excited about meeting up with me in Istanbul; I’d assumed she was looking forward to showing me around and having fun. But she was probably planning her escape even then, and wanted to get her stuff back. So she set me up as an unwitting smuggler.
“Did she give you any contact information? An email address? A phone number?” Inspector Lale asked.
“None,” I said. “I just know her host family was in Istanbul.”
“I’ll pursue that angle,” she said. Then she slid her business card across the table to me. “I believe it is possible that Amy Miller will show up in Istanbul, attempt to contact you, and try to retrieve the figurines. After all, the two of you connected, you became friends, in a short space of time. And she knows the name of your aunt’s hotel. I need you to get in touch with me the moment you hear from her. I can be reached by mobile phone. I will return to Istanbul in three days, and I would appreciate any information you can give me. Especially if you happen to recall anything else she may have told you,” she added, giving me a meaningful look.
My neck itched. I nodded and pu
t the card in my backpack.
Inspector Lale walked us back to the police station. After instructing us not to reveal our conversation to anyone, she went back inside the station and left us in the taxi queue.
A horn beeped. It was Orhan. He’d been patiently waiting for us.
He rolled down his window and grinned. “May I give you ladies a lift to the airport?”
Mom shot Aunt Jackie a look, but my aunt wasn’t about to protest. We got in the car and slammed the doors behind us.
“Floor it,” Mom said, her face grim.
Orhan looked down at the floor and then at Mom, confused.
“I mean, please drive quickly,” she said. “I don’t ever want to see this police station again.”
While she and Aunt Jackie talked to Orhan, giving him only the most basic facts about our meeting with Inspector Kemal and Inspector Lale, I stared out the window, hatching my plan.
I was tired of following other people’s itineraries. I wouldn’t wait around for Sage to find me. I wasn’t sure how I’d do it yet, but I’d find her on my own. Or at least find out about her by following some of her tracks in Istanbul. Who was she, anyway? And why had I been duped and dropped by a friend once again? Did it say something about her—or about me?
Part of me hoped she had a good motive behind her decisions. Like maybe she wanted to sell stuff with a smuggling ring to get money to help her sick mother in Oregon. After all, I had done some dumb things, too, broken laws, and I wasn’t a horrible person.
Then a new thought seized me. What if I gave Interpol a big lead? I wasn’t sure how much the reward was, but I bet it would go a long way in helping Aunt Jackie.
And if Sage didn’t have a good answer to explain why she’d put figurines in my bag? Well, then, I wouldn’t hesitate to turn her in and claim that reward money myself.
19
The taxi screeched to a stop and Mom, Aunt Jackie, and I got out. While the driver took our bags out of the trunk, I gazed around the cobblestoned street lined with crumbling buildings and mazes of alleyways, a mix of shops and homes. The air was thick with fumes from scooters that raced past us, cigar smoke, and döner, lamb, turning in a rotisserie nearby. Through the window of a café, I saw men smoking hookahs like the caterpillar used in Alice in Wonderland. I felt a little like Alice myself in that moment, as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole. I’d never been in a place like this: the Sultanahmet district, otherwise known as the Old City. The heart of Istanbul.
Mom paid the driver, and I thought of something Sage had told me at the cliff tombs: that Turkey itself was a grand bazaar. Now I could see what she meant. All of life was on display—and most of it was for sale. Children strolled by selling candy and postcards. At the end of the street I saw an arched yellow sign that read ARASTA BAZAAR, the gateway to a local market, and brick walls lined with rugs hung on display.
Istanbul was sprawling, and even this cozy neighborhood was a labyrinth. Was I really going to be able to find Sage in this city? I looked up, wondering what I could climb, a tower or someplace I might go to clear my head and think. Then I turned and saw an enormous mosque not too far away. Seagulls swooped around the domes and minarets. My breath caught in my throat. The Blue Mosque. I remembered the image on the cover of Lonely Planet. It was even more dazzling in person. I hoped we’d get a chance to go in. I started to point it out to Mom, but she seemed fixated on getting inside the hotel and down to the business of helping Aunt Jackie.
“I still can’t believe we got our bags so easily at the airport,” said Mom, snatching Aunt Jackie’s bag when she reached for it. Our suitcases had traveled to Istanbul without us while we were detained in Dalaman, and they’d been held at the airport overnight.
“Our evil-eye bracelets must be working,” I said, following Mom and Aunt Jackie across the street.
I noticed some of the women wore black veils covering everything but their eyes. Others were dressed in colorful hijabs and long tan- or cream-colored trench coats. Some wore plain white or black scarves with long-sleeved T-shirts and jeans. Even those without scarves or veils were more modestly dressed than most girls and women I’d seen at the Marmaris docks. This was not the same Turkey where I’d just spent the past four days.
I had to smile, though, thinking of all those times my ex-friends had tried to get me to wear short skirts and tank tops, not understanding why I always covered so much skin. Here, strangely, I wasn’t so out of place at all.
Suddenly the air crackled, stopping us in our tracks. A flock of pigeons shot into the sky with a whoosh. It took me a few moments to realize I was hearing music—someone was singing through a loudspeaker, or a bullhorn. The music sounded both piercing and muffled. Then I caught echoes of the song—no, many different songs—in the distance. A call and response. It was like nothing I’d ever heard, and strangely beautiful.
“It’s the call to prayer,” Aunt Jackie explained to Mom and me. “You’re hearing the muezzin from mosques all over the city. The loudest is from the Blue Mosque over there.”
I’d learned in Hebrew school that a muezzin is a Muslim who calls out the hour of daily prayers. We all stood still, staring at the Blue Mosque, listening to the muezzin. A few passersby stopped and turned toward the mosque, but most people hurried on, talking into their cell phones or hailing taxis.
“This is how I first fell in love with Turkey,” said Aunt Jackie. “When I heard the call to prayers, something stirred in my soul. I loved the idea that five times a day you would hear this music, a reminder to hit the pause button on your life, even if you don’t worship at a mosque. Berk laughed when I told him this. He said that after a while I wouldn’t even notice the calls anymore. And you know what? He was right. I didn’t.”
“Uncle Berk didn’t go to the mosque?” I asked.
“No,” said Aunt Jackie. “He was very secular. Not all Turkish people are practicing Muslims.”
“And this call to prayer, it happens five times a day?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “You’ll hear it next around dinner. Shall we go in?” Aunt Jackie led us across the street and stopped in front of a four-story cream-colored building with white trim. Some windows protruded, like square bay windows, but they were covered in wooden lattice. Flowers spilled out of pots by the heavy wooden front door, and a flowering vine crept up the side of the corner building. Looking up, I saw that both the hotel and the building next door had rooftop gardens. I made a mental note to check out the hotel’s garden as soon as I could.
“ geldiniz! Welcome! This is the Hotel Mavi Konak,” said Aunt Jackie. She smiled, but her face tightened as she stood by the door.
“Oh, Jackie, it’s so sweet!” exclaimed Mom. “Perfectly charming!”
Aunt Jackie frowned. “When people say charming, they usually mean run-down. That’s what Mom and Dad said when I sent them pictures.”
“But that’s not at all what I meant.” Mom looked hurt.
“Well, it’s small even for a boutique hotel. It’s just fifteen rooms. But Berk and I had all kinds of ideas for renovating and modernizing the place after his parents left it to us, and . . .” Aunt Jackie’s voice quavered. “I just wish we’d finished it. Together.”
“Is there much work left to do?” Mom asked. “The outside looks pretty spruced up.”
“Outside is fine. But it’s a bit tired inside,” Aunt Jackie admitted. “It’s an old Ottoman-era mansion, and it’s got its quirks. There’s always more to do. Constant updates. Maintenance and plumbing issues. No wonder we’re getting all these bad online reviews lately.”
Aunt Jackie led us inside and gave us a tour. There was a small lobby, a breakfast area with ten square tables, and a kitchen, which was closed and dark. Behind the front desk, made of gleaming dark wood, was a wall of wooden pigeonhole cubbies, each with an old-fashioned key hanging from a hook. The only modern touch was the comp
uter on the front counter.
Mom exclaimed over the marble floor, the low divans encircling the room, the tapestries smothering the walls, and all the ornate Turkish rugs. I liked the little garden and patio outside, which were surrounded by crumbling, ancient-looking walls. Aunt Jackie said they were actually Byzantine ruins.
We were outside admiring a wall and the little stone fountain attached to it when a middle-aged man with wispy gray hair and a bristly gray mustache hurried up to us. He reminded me of a praying mantis, with his hooded eyes and the way he rubbed his hands together as if agitated, or cold—I couldn’t tell which. He wore crisp black trousers and a maroon jacket with gold braiding and a double row of gold buttons. “I see you are admiring our ancient wall,” he said, grinning, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. “Enjoy and appreciate. Our history appears on your bill!”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“No bill for these two,” said Aunt Jackie. “They’re family. This is my sister, Kitsie, and my niece, Zan.” To us, she said, “This is Mustafa Polat, our guest relations manager.”
Mustafa greeted us more warmly. “Merhaba! Ho geldiniz.”
“Merhaba,” I said back. “Teekkür ederim.” He smiled, just as Orhan had when I first said thank you in his language. It was getting easier for me—and kind of fun—to say things like “hello” and “thank you” in Turkish.
“We are happy to have you here,” said Mustafa. “You must be very tired from your journey. I hope Turkish Airlines will reimburse you for all of your delays and inconveniences.”
