by Jay Amberg
Abrahim wills himself to stop stroking again. He forces himself from under the covers to the cool, hard floor. He kneels naked and bends forward, his forehead touching the cold tiles. He must seek forgiveness yet another time. “Confeitior Dei…,” he begins, his prayers always in Latin, a sacred language that speaks directly to the Lord. But his Act of Contrition isn’t perfect. He still cannot feel truly sorry that he took the bones. He is glad that he stole the documents.
The sweat chills his body, causing him to shiver. He tries to offer praise in place of his failed contrition. “Laudamus te,” he chants aloud. “Benedictimus te. Adoramus te. Glorificamus te.” He repeats the incantation, but the words do not raise him up or free his mind from what he has done or what he will do. He must find out what the Messiah said. He knows no Aramaic, only Latin and Greek as well as his native Turkish and the English and French he has picked up in the last year. If he had known Aramaic, would he have let Doctor Altay take the scrolls? He trusts her more than he trusts anyone else, but she did not ask him for the scrolls. She simply placed them in her bag. She must already have translated them. She has a gift for languages, moving effortlessly among ancient and modern tongues. But why didn’t she tell him what the scrolls say? Just as he is protecting the hidden bones, she is safeguarding the scripture. But is she protecting him—or the words from him?
His shivering deepens, and his knees ache from the cold floor. He looks at the warm bed taking shape as the curtained windows turn from black to gray. He is not supposed to make contact with her today. When at nightfall she pointed him back along the road into Göreme, she told him only that they would meet at the same time and place the next evening. But how is he to make it through an entire day, alone and bereft of her touch or that of any other human?
31
At eight in the morning, Joseph Travers limps into the small Selçuk Municipal Building office cluttered with a row of file cabinets, a computer station, a desk, and a conference table with four chairs. Stacks of documents are piled on top of the cabinets as though filing is a century behind.
Nihat Monuglu, seated at the desk smoking and reading a word- processed document, looks up and stubs out his cigarette in the half-filled ashtray. Waving his hand at the mess, he says, “It is the best the mayor could do for me.” As he stands, he adds, “How are you, Joseph?”
“I’ve been better,” Travers says. He has shaved and put on clean clothes, but his jaw is swollen, and his left ear won’t stop ringing. His head aches, and he’s groggy from medication and lack of sleep. Though the meds are doing some good, his right thigh where the fifteen stitches are sewn is tight and burning. The pervasive odor of stale cigarette smoke nauseates him.
“I apologize on behalf of my country,” Monuglu says. “What happened to you does not occur to tourists here.”
Travers nods but doesn’t smile at the irony. Both he and Monuglu know that what happened has nothing to do with tourism. The guys that beat him and then cut the flash drive from his pocket knew who he was and had some idea what he had. Or at least that he had something. He was out cold, and the knife wound in his thigh was more message than necessity.
“Please take a seat,” Monuglu says, gesturing toward the table and then picking up the ashtray and coming around from behind the desk.
Travers pulls out a chair, sits, and grimaces when the pain snakes along his leg.
Monuglu sets the ashtray on the table, sits down across from him, leans forward, and folds his hands. “Have you spoken with Herr Kirchburg or Mister Lee?” he asks.
Travers can’t get comfortable. “No,” he says. “Have you?”
“Not since Herr Kirchburg made all of his announcements for television. Have you heard from Sophia Altay?”
Travers looks around the office. Two laminated posters, one of the facade of the Library of Celsus and the other an aerial view of Saint John’s Cathedral, hang on the wall over Monuglu’s shoulder. But there’s nothing, no personal photographs or talismans or knickknacks, to let anyone know whose office this really is. “I don’t know where she is,” he says. “Or even if she’s doing all right. You’re much more likely to know about that and Kenan’s death and anything else that’s going on.”
Monuglu shrugs. “Perhaps…”
“Damn it, Nihat,” Travers says, leaning forward. He’s too tired and in too much pain to keep playing this game. “The two guys who jumped me knew my name.”
Monuglu sits back, his hands sliding along the tabletop. “What are you implying?”
“You know exactly what I’m saying. Did you send them?”
Monuglu stares at Travers, ferocity flashing in his eyes. He slides the ashtray to the side, presses his hands on the table, and leans forward so that they are almost nose to nose. “You want us to be…” He pauses as though he’s not sure of the English word. “…frank…, Joseph? That’s good. Then listen to me. A Turk is dead. A young Turkish man, little more than a boy, is missing. So is a woman, a noted Turkish archeologist.” A droplet of spit flies from his mouth and hits the table between them. He swipes it with his hand. “So is what was in that bone box, artifacts that belong to the people of Turkey.”
“Yes,” Travers answers, meeting Monuglu’s gaze. “And I was knifed.”
“You possessed something related to these events, something you obtained during the investigation. Something you did not tell the Selçuk police or me about. Those men who did this did not take your wallet or passport. They only took it, the thing you possessed. You do not even know if they were Turkish, and yet you accuse me.”
“I was marked.”
“They were not my men.”
“You had me followed from the moment I arrived in Turkey.” Travers tries to keep his voice even, but anger fires through his words.
Monuglu folds his hands and sits back but does not look away. “You must tell me what you possessed. If you do not, your pain is just beginning.”
Travers smiles through the ire. The burning in his leg, the headache, and the ringing stir the sense of loss he holds. “Don’t threaten me, Nihat,” he says. “It won’t work.”
Monuglu does not break eye contact. “I did not send those men. I learned about it only after the incident occurred.”
Incident? Travers thinks. He doesn’t trust Monuglu, but he’s starting to believe him, at least on this point.
Monuglu pulls his lighter from his pocket. “I must know what they took.”
“Yeah,” Travers says. “Okay.” He insisted to the medics and police that he had no idea why he had been cut, that there must have been some mistake in identity. But Monuglu knows better. Travers has already broken his promise to Altay. He could out of spite withhold what little he knows, but that won’t get him any closer to the truth. Malice never does. He brushes his fingertips across the table’s veneer and says, “A computer flash drive.”
Monuglu picks up his lighter, flips it opens, and then shuts it. “What was on it?”
“I don’t know.”
Monuglu stares at Travers again. “You were robbed just after you left an internet café. You sent email messages, but you also used the flash drive while you were there.”
“It had photos of the bone box, the bones, and documents of some kind. Some ancient writing. I couldn’t read it. Not a word.”
Monuglu flicks his lighter open, fires it up, and watches the flame. “How did you get the flash drive?” he asks.
“You know.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.” He’s got an idea, of course, but, technically, he’s telling the truth.
“But you did hear from her?”
“Email—a few words.”
“What?”
“Basically, Deliver the flash drive.”
“To?”
“The Glavine Foundation. Who else
would I deliver it to?”
“An excellent question.” Monuglu waves the lighter for a moment before snapping it shut. “I can have the email checked.”
“Go ahead. If you haven’t already.”
“Let us be clear on this. Shortly after Sirhan’s death, during the investigation, Doctor Altay asked you to do something…something secretive if not illegal. And you agreed.”
“I did.”
Monuglu scratches his mustache. “Do you know anything about the discovery of the bone box?”
“Nothing. She told me nothing about it or its contents.”
That Travers is telling the truth on this point seems to register with Monuglu. “The photograph of the bones. Where were they?”
“Arranged in the box.”
“Arranged?”
“Yes. Neatly.”
Monuglu stands the lighter on the desk. “Ah, Joseph,” he says, “your visit to Turkey has been more eventful than you expected.”
“It has.”
“Thank you for coming in this morning,” Monuglu says, the fierceness momentarily gone from his eyes. “With the night you had, my friend, you must need rest.”
“I need to return to Istanbul.” The attack, the ambulance, the hospital emergency room, the red tape, the interviews with the cops—all of it was a pain, but none of it was more difficult than losing the flash drive Altay had entrusted to him.
Monuglu nods. “You mentioned that yesterday.”
“The police told me to remain here.”
“That is a problem. You see, the status of Kenan Sirhan’s death will, very soon, be officially changed to homicide.” He stares into Travers’ eyes. “The backs of his legs were scraped, and his wrist was shattered. Not only did he not jump, but he tried to break his fall.” Shaking his head, he exhales. “And your possession of the flash drive connects you yet again to the murder.” Monuglu tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Certain other information received…”
“What information?”
Fixing his eyes on Travers, Monuglu leans sideways and takes a cracked leather billfold from his pants’ back pocket.
“I had nothing to do with Kenan’s death.”
He opens the billfold and glances at a photograph of himself standing with his arms around a dark-haired woman and three round-faced young children, two boys and a girl. “No,” he says. “Not directly. But the police here in Selçuk…the incident last night… It doesn’t look good.”
Travers gazes at the poster of Saint John’s ruins. The curtain wall and its sheer drop to the rubble stone are clearly visible in the aerial shot. “Goddamn it, Nihat,” he says.
Monuglu slides the family photo back into the billfold and takes out an older picture of himself in a red wrestler’s singlet. The photo is faded, the upper right-hand corner veined from wear. He places the picture on the table in front of Travers.
Travers gazes at the photograph and says nothing. In the picture, Monuglu has more hair and less girth, but still a bull neck and thick sloping shoulders. He is not smiling, but his eyes are glinting with pride or, perhaps, fanaticism.
“Greco-Roman,” Monuglu says. “I was an Olympic alternate.” He leans forward, his bulky forearms pressing on the table. “The honor of wrestling for my country in the Olympics would have been the proudest moment of my life.”
Travers glances again at Monuglu’s eyes in the photograph.
“Off the mat,” Monuglu says, “everyone was my friend. But on the mat, no. Never.” He tips the lighter over with his index finger. “I was not the most skilled wrestler, but I always fought hard. Always.” His smile curls, and the ferocity returns to his eyes. “If my opponents underestimated my determination, they paid a high price.”
“I bet they did,” Travers says as he passes back the photograph. “And, I get your point.”
Monuglu’s eyes soften; he slips the photograph into his billfold and stuffs it into his pocket. “Go to your hotel,” he says. “Get some sleep.”
“I need to be on the next flight to Istanbul.”
“Yes, Istanbul,” Monuglu says, slapping the table with his palms. “Call me in an hour.” He presses himself up to standing and leans across the table toward Travers. “And let me know when you hear again from a certain noted Turkish archeologist.”
“Of course,” Travers says, though both he and Monuglu know he won’t.
32
Sophia Altay can swear in seven languages, ancient and modern. A potpourri of all of them would be appropriate at the moment, but, choosing French, she murmurs “Merde!” Dressed as a European tourist, she sits at a computer in one of Göreme’s cafés. Her blue jeans are tight, her peasant blouse loose; her hair, parted in the middle, flows down around her face. The sunglasses she wore outside are now propped on her head.
Altay types NO! in caps. The email from Joseph Travers was as disturbing as it was simple: LOST ITEM. COMING TO CHURCH. She needed him to do one simple job, and he botched it. And now he’s planning to blunder in here. Having him in the vicinity will draw the Pharisees and their henchmen. An already difficult and dangerous situation will be exacerbated.
Her plan to have the elder Glavine read the documents and then explain to him why he needs to do what must be done is no longer viable. The old man is the only one without an academic, political, or religious agenda. He’s dying slowly of heart congestion and colon cancer, and he has outlived whatever megalomaniacal tendencies he may have had while he was accumulating wealth. All he cares about at this point is the archeology—that whatever artifacts are unearthed come to light, that the discoveries are preserved, and that people have the opportunity to learn some truth from those discoveries. She would have valued his aid and advice, but now she alone must be responsible for authenticating and preserving the scrolls. And she has to rethink how to do so without getting herself killed or the originals destroyed.
Before checking her email, she logged onto the BBC and CNN websites. Leopold has been crowing as usual. His photo and his quotes are featured on both sites. Kenan’s death was downplayed in relation to the ossuary’s discovery, but her disappearance was included on CNN. The head and shoulder shot is of a formal, somber professorial woman who is neither the sashaying European tourist nor the veiled Turkish woman she will now be whenever she is in public.
NO CONTACT! she types. It’s probably too late to keep Joe and those who will follow him away, but she needs time to implement a new plan. TAKE A TOUR TOMORROW. She smiles to herself as she sends the message. The tour might do Joe good.
She lowers her sunglasses, gathers up her daypack, and stands. She used Spanish on the boy when she entered the café, and she’ll say adios on the way out. She takes one step and stops. Abrahim is standing outside the window staring at her like a lost puppy. He really is a beautiful boy, and that stricken look he has melts people. If he stays there any longer, he’ll draw a crowd of tourists, both male and female. She’ll meet him later, but not here in this public place at this time. She shakes her head once sharply. He steps back from the window as though he has been slapped, but he doesn’t immediately turn away. Those large brown eyes cloud and his shoulders slump before he slinks off along the sidewalk.
33
As he deplanes in Kayseri, Joseph Travers checks out the other passengers, wondering which was sent to shadow him. He dozed on the flight but didn’t sleep. His head throbs, and his swollen, discolored jaw aches. Though he’s still woozy, the pain, particularly in his thigh, has helped him stay at least somewhat focused. Without the flash drive, he’s insignificant—except that Nihat Monuglu and the others know that he might lead them to Sophia Altay and the ossuary’s contents.
Monuglu expedited Travers’ exit from Selçuk, reserving a seat for him on the flight to Istanbul and providing a car to the İzmir airport driven by a policeman who spok
e no English at all. After arriving in Istanbul just after noon, Travers tried to be covert with each step—checking back into the Blue House Hotel and then stuffing toiletries and a change of clothes into a daybag, taking one cab to the main entrance of the Grand Bazaar and a second from the bazaar’s back entrance to the domestic terminal, and purchasing his plane ticket only forty minutes before the flight. But it’s all amateur stuff, with a paper trail at the airport if nowhere else, and Monuglu’s men will track him soon if they’re not already on him.
The Kayseri airport has a single entrance and exit gate. Green and gray benches line the one waiting room, and blue steel grillwork rises along the slanted ceiling. The city is crowded and nondescript, but the early evening sky is luminous. A single cloud shrouds the cap of Erciyes Dagi, one of the extinct volcanoes whose lava originally formed Cappadocia’s landscape.
The only other passenger in the Turkish Airlines minibus is a doctor born in Bombay and now practicing in London. Her face is round, and her smile radiant. As they leave the city for the countryside, she tells him that she has traveled the world visiting mountains. She liked the Incan ruins and the mountains surrounding the desert in Chile. “Everest,” she says to him, “changed me from the inside out.” She laughs often, and she doesn’t once ask him about his swollen jaw. The farther they ride, the more the terrain reminds Travers of the American Southwest’s high country. It’s not a literal likeness, but more a feeling of place. The lone thunderhead in the distance, shaped like a standing bear, gray at the bottom and pink and white at the top, looks somehow like home.
Anger simmers in Travers’ belly, but with each passing mile it’s becoming less focused. He’s no longer sure that it was Monuglu who had him mugged. But if Monuglu didn’t send the men, who did? Sophia Altay was, he thinks, the only one who knew he had the flash drive, and she needed it delivered to Bill Glavine’s father. Leopold Kirchburg certainly would have craved the information on the flash drive. Travers tries to remember if the wiry man who pronounced his name “traverse” had a German accent, but a single word isn’t enough. Charles Lee…what would he do with it? Any of the TV networks would want to scoop the world about the ossuary’s contents… Governments would…
