Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  Alex mockingly echoed McMillan’s words. “Good luck.”

  He heard McMillan mutter something to someone in the room with him. “Hold on,” McMillan told Alex. “Barney’s getting it.”

  Alex could almost see the amber light of the computer gleaming on Barney’s balding head as he tapped with precision into the classified memory banks.

  A few minutes later McMillan came back on the line. “Kemal Nemid. He’s done work for us and for your friends in the KGB.”

  “How do I contact him?”

  “He doesn’t have a telephone. Barney will arrange a meeting with him. The dossier says Nemid prefers the first contact to be in a public place, usually an outdoor café called the Korfez on the Bosporus.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Today. I’m leaving the hotel now. I’ll be at the café all day and all evening.” Alex hung up the phone.

  Alex sipped from the glass of coffee, his gaze never ceasing to travel from the umbrella-shaded tables of the sidewalk café to the stream of busy traffic on the street a few yards away and back. It was almost sundown, dammit. McMillan had had over six hours to contact his man and there had been no sign of this Kemal Nemid. It would be just like McMillan to let Alex stew here all evening before producing Nemid.

  A cacophony of automobile horns broke the stillness and Alex’s gaze flew to the street. A boy of thirteen or fourteen was riding a wobbling blue bicycle down the narrow thoroughfare. The automobiles behind him moved at a snail’s pace.

  The boy gave a calm glance over his shoulder at the traffic piling up behind him before smiling ingratiatingly and calling, “Please. Patience. Low tire.”

  Howls and curses answered him from the drivers. The boy’s smile faded, and he turned and began to pedal industriously. The tire was losing more air by the second, the drivers of the cars in the parade grew more abusive, the boy more solemn and determined.

  Alex smiled as he watched the bizarre procession.

  When the boy came even with the café he jumped the bicycle onto the curb, slipped from the seat, and swept a low bow to the drivers. He motioned with an imperious gesture for the cars to proceed. The courtesy was ignored as the cars accelerated and whipped past him.

  The kid had panache. Alex watched the boy kneel beside the bicycle to examine the tire. Not many people could have coped with those impatient drivers, much less in such style. Alex studied him, realizing the boy was older than he had first thought. A closer view revealed the tousled curly black hair and bright black eyes looked just as youthful, and the boy’s ragged, faded blue jeans were certainly the preferred uniform of the students here in Istanbul, but his body was neither gangly nor adolescent. He was not more than five eight or nine inches in height, but his thighs bulged with sinewy muscle as he squatted by his bicycle, and his bright red sweatshirt covered well-developed shoulders.

  The boy shook his dark head mournfully as he turned to Alex. “I think the frame is bent. I was in a hurry and rode it down a flight of a stairs in a street by the Grand Bazaar.”

  “Too bad.”

  The boy scowled. “It was a very fine bicycle. You will have to pay for it.”

  Alex’s eyes widened. “Oh, I will?”

  “But of course. You’re the one who couldn’t wait to see me. I had to rush from my last class at the university and I broke my—”

  “You’re Kemal Nemid?”

  The boy nodded as he rose to his feet. “You must definitely buy me a new bicycle.” He rolled the bicycle to the stand by the café entrance and walked back to Alex’s table. “I must warn you, McMillan says he will not pay this time, and I’m very expensive.” He grinned. “But you will find I am worth my pay. I am truly most excellent in every way.”

  Alex smothered a smile. The kid’s panache was obviously equaled by his conceit. “I was expecting someone older.”

  “I’m almost twenty-three. Youth is good.” Kemal indicated his bright black eyes. “The young see better and notice more. You’re lucky to get me.” He dropped down into the chair opposite Alex and crooked his finger for the waiter. “Now, what do you want me to do, Mr. Karazov?”

  “How did you recognize me?”

  “Good eyes, sharp intuition, keen wit.” Kemal’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Besides, Barney faxed me a picture of you.”

  “A fax machine?”

  “Oh, I’m up on all the latest technology. I gouged the machine out of McMillan on my last job for him.”

  “A fax machine with no telephone?”

  He looked faintly shocked. “But I would have had to pay for regular telephone service. I went to the telephone company and made a deal with them that the equipment be used only for the fax. That way I can charge my clients for the service.” He looked up at the hovering waiter. “Raki.” He turned back to Alex. “You disapprove of me squeezing McMillan?”

  “No, I’m all in favor of McMillan being gouged.”

  “Good. I don’t like him.” Kemal leaned back in his chair. “Barney says you’re looking for someone.”

  “Brian Ledford.”

  Kemal made a face. “Nasty.”

  Alex stiffened. “You know him?”

  “I’ve seen him a few times. He’s not here in Istanbul now.”

  “How do you know?”

  Kemal’s smile was a flash of gleaming white teeth in his good-looking face. “I make it my business to know such things. That’s why you’re going to pay me a great deal of money. Ledford was here a few weeks ago, but he’s gone now.”

  “How long was he in Istanbul?”

  Kemal shrugged. “Off and on for over a year.”

  “And he stayed at the house on the Street of Swords?”

  Kemal shook his head. “I know nothing about a house on the Street of Swords. From what I heard, Ledford stayed somewhere in the old city.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dead end again. Yet if Ledford had used Istanbul as the base for his operations, he had to have formed a network of some kind. “Who was his supplier?”

  A delighted smile touched Kemal’s lips. “Very good. A supplier would have to know where to deliver the merchandise.”

  “I’m glad you approve. Now, tell me who—”

  “Oh, I have no idea, but I do believe keen thinking should be praised, don’t you?”

  Alex gazed at him blankly. “I want information, not praise.”

  Kemal nodded amiably. “Okay, what would he have had to supply?”

  “Ledford would have needed weapons, explosives, false papers. Who’s capable of handling that variety of load?”

  “False papers too?”

  Alex nodded.

  “The other items are simple enough, but the false papers would require someone—” He stopped, frowning before he said slowly, “The Gypsy. Only the Gypsy could handle all of it.”

  “Who the hell is the Gypsy?”

  “You want his name?” Kemal shook his head. “I don’t know. When someone works with clients like Ledford, they don’t want anyone to know more than they have to about them. I’ve heard the Gypsy works through several front men in town.”

  “Can you find him?”

  “I’ll try. I don’t promise anything.”

  “Not even for this great deal of money you’re going to charge me?”

  “Ah, but I’ll try very hard.” Kemal smiled beguilingly. “In fact, I can take you to one of the Gypsy’s front people tomorrow night, if you like.”

  “I like,” Alex said. “I’d like it even better if you could take me there tonight.”

  “You’re in too much of a hurry.” The waiter set a glass and napkin before Kemal and moved away. “Life should be savored.” He lifted the milky liquor to his lips. “Like raki. Have you ever tried it?”

  “On my first trip to Istanbul. It can blow your mind.”

  “But so pleasantly.” Kemal sipped the liquor and sighed contentedly. “Man should live only for pleasure, you k
now.”

  “Can you arrange for me to meet this man tonight?”

  Kemal shook his head. “Impossible. Tomorrow, I promise.” He took another sip of his raki. “But you won’t be bored tonight. We have something to do.”

  “We do?”

  Kemal nodded solemnly and looked around the café before lowering his voice. “We must go to a shop near the covered bazaar.”

  “To meet another one of the Gypsy’s contacts?”

  “No.” Kemal beamed at Alex. “To buy me another bicycle.”

  11

  “Catherine’s journal is with the books on perfume in the perfumery.” Katrine smiled at Peter. “Caitlin always liked to have it close by, and heaven knows, she always spent more time in the perfumery than she did in the house. I’ll take you over there. You can bring it back and browse through it in comfort.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you. Just give me directions and I’ll find it myself.” Katrine appeared to be a nice enough woman, but Peter didn’t want to have to be polite and indulge in social chitchat once he got his hands on the journal. “Please. You’ve been kind enough to welcome me into your home. I don’t want to burden you any more than necessary.”

  Katrine hesitated. “Well, if you’d rather . . . It’s the second stone building to the rear of the manor house.” Her expression brightened. “Marisa is wandering outside somewhere. If you run into her, I’m sure she’ll be glad to show you where it is.”

  “Right. The second stone building. Is it locked?”

  Katrine shook her head. “No one would steal anything here at Vasaro.”

  Peter grinned. “Shades of Shangri-la, I believe I’m going to like it here. Who is Marisa?”

  “Marisa Benedict, Chelsea Benedict’s daughter. She’s staying with us for the next few weeks. I thought you knew.”

  Peter shook his head. “No one mentioned her to me. Not that it matters. I wouldn’t want to bother her. I’ll just find my own way.” He started for the front door. “If the perfumery isn’t being used, I wonder if you’d give me permission to study the journal there and copy some notes I have to send Caitlin.”

  “Of course.” Katrine smiled indulgently. “But it’s not as comfortable as the house. Don’t become too involved and forget about meals, as Caitlin does. We have dinner early, about seven.”

  “I’ll be back in time.” Peter opened the door. “By the way, I’m something of a photography nut. I do the developing myself, but since I have no equipment here, I wonder if there’s somewhere nearby I could have my film processed.”

  “The pharmacy in the village.”

  “Great. Thank you again, Madame Vasaro.”

  “Katrine. We’re very informal at Vasaro.”

  “Katrine.” Peter smiled over his shoulder. “Now I know I’m going to like it here.” He closed the door behind him.

  He stood on the top step and took a deep, heady breath of the fragrance-laden air. God, Vasaro was beautiful. The sun shone brilliantly in the hard blue sky, and everywhere he looked there were trees and plants and blossoms, signs of life and renewal. He had never felt stronger or more alive, and he could practically feel the blood sing in his veins.

  Peter smiled. Blood didn’t sing and he shouldn’t be this happy. Only moments before he had arrived at Vasaro he had still been weighed down by guilt about his part in the Wind Dancer’s theft two days earlier. He had begged Jonathan to let him stay in Paris to handle the tedious job of dealing with insurance people and police, but instead of punishment he had been sent to Vasaro.

  How the devil would he even know if something wasn’t as it should be in this Garden of Eden? Everything seemed perfect to him. He supposed all he could do was wander around, talk to people, take pictures, and—

  Pictures, Lord, this place was a photographer’s paradise. He could hardly wait to unpack his Nikon and walk over the property. He found to his astonishment that Catherine’s journal was suddenly fading in importance for him. From the first moment he had caught sight of the place he’d had a curious feeling that something for which he had long searched was waiting for him at Vasaro.

  Foolishness. What was waiting for him was the job of getting the translation typed and ready to send Caitlin and the pleasure of inundating himself in another branch of the Andreas family through Catherine Vasaro’s journal.

  He walked briskly around the manor house and then hesitated. Katrine had said the second stone building, but he was facing a half-stone, half-wooden structure that obviously had once been a stable. Did she mean for him to count this as one of the buildings?

  “Hello, can I help you?”

  Peter turned to face a tall, slender girl dressed in a loose yellow shirt and soft, faded jeans. She met his gaze with an air of quaint gravity and, as he watched, an errant breeze lifted a few fine strands of her long, straight brown hair and blew it across her lips. She brushed it back with an unhurried gesture.

  “I’m Peter Maskovel. I’m looking for the perfumery.”

  “I’m Marisa Benedict.” She smiled serenely at him. “It’s not far. I’ll take you.”

  He caught his breath as he looked at her. He felt as he had when he had first seen the Wind Dancer over twenty years before—frightened, excited, filled with a sense of coming home.

  And he had the curious feeling he had found what had been waiting for him at Vasaro.

  “His name is Adnan Irmak.” Kemal opened the wrought iron door and preceded Alex into the foyer of Irmak’s yali on the shores of the Bosporus. “I must warn you, he won’t be cooperative.”

  “Given a little pressure, most men prove cooperative. Fill me in on him.”

  Kemal shrugged as he crossed the foyer and started down a long, gleaming corridor. “He deals a little in drugs. Occasionally he can be persuaded to fence a few things. But he makes most of his money from the Harem.”

  “He owns the Harem?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “How could I help it?” Brothels were legalized and controlled in Istanbul, but activities at Irmak’s Harem were strictly beyond the realm of legality. Its infamous reputation was known worldwide. “It’s not my cup of tea. I visited the Kafas once but I decided not to go on into the Harem.”

  “I’ve been there.” Kemal looked away from him. “It’s not a good place.”

  So Alex had heard. For the right price the Harem offered every kind of sexual debauchery and erotica from S and M to pedophilia. He glanced down at the expensive Persian carpet on the tiled floor and then to the exquisite Ming vase occupying the place of honor on a pedestal by the door they were approaching. “He seems to be doing well with his flesh-peddling.”

  “Oh, Adnan’s very rich. He could probably retire.” Kemal smiled crookedly. “But he won’t do it. Why should he? He’s greedy and he likes what he does.”

  “Irmak sounds like a fit cohort for Ledford.”

  Kemal nodded. “And Adnan has the contacts. For a while I wondered if he could be the Gypsy himself.” He knocked on the door at the end of the corridor. “It’s Kemal, Adnan.”

  “Come in, Kemal,” a deep voice boomed. “You know my door is always open to you.”

  Alex followed Kemal into the office.

  Adnan Irmak sat at his desk, smoking an ornate water pipe set on a low table beside him. The ruby-colored glass of the bowl glittered in the late afternoon sunlight, and the long scarlet cord attached to the pipe was inset with shimmering flecks of gold. Irmak was the first Turk wearing the traditional robes Alex had seen since he had arrived in Istanbul. But perhaps the flowing brown-and-white-striped garment was designed to hide the immense rolls of fat clinging to the man’s small frame. Adnan Irmak must have weighed close to four hundred pounds.

  “Come in. Come in.” Irmak waved a chubby arm at the two chairs in front of the desk. “Sit down. It’s been a long time since you came to see me, Kemal. But I forgive you now that you bring me a client.” He stared at Kemal appraisingly before his plump cheeks dimpled as he beamed at the youn
g man. “You’re handsomer than ever, you young devil.” His gaze turned to Alex. “Now, how may I serve you? Kemal tells me you have a special request and the means to purchase it.”

  “I need to find a man.”

  “That’s no problem.” Irmak giggled. He cast a mischievous glance at Kemal. “I supply all desires, don’t I, Kemal?”

  Kemal nodded.

  Irmak sucked on his pipe. “I’ve always believed Allah put man on earth to have whatever he desires, and I’ve built my fortune on giving it to him. You might say I’m like the slave procurer of the royal seraglios of the past.” He sighed. “How I envy those men. What power they wielded. A man could indulge himself in any way he pleased with no worry about the law. They were the law.”

  “I’m not looking for a whore.”

  “The Gypsy,” Kemal said.

  Irmak frowned, his lips pursing as he drew deeply on his pipe. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I can afford a sum generous enough to jog your memory.”

  “I said I didn’t know him.” Irmak’s tone was peevish. “I’m not pleased with you, Kemal. You said he was a customer.”

  Kemal shrugged. “He’s offering you money.”

  Alex said, “You don’t have to take me to the Gypsy. I only want to know how to contact him.”

  “Go away.” Irmak made a shooing gesture with the hand not holding the pipe. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Kemal says you do. Name your price.”

  “I don’t have a pri—” Irmak broke off, his expression becoming calculating. “You’re reckless with your offers. Kemal said you had money.” He suddenly smiled ingratiatingly. “I can’t help you find this Gypsy, but perhaps we can still do business. You are a visitor to our city, and visitors are always lonely.” He leaned forward. “Have you ever been to my fine establishment?”

  “I’ve never had that honor,” Alex said ironically.

  “It’s a place beyond imagination. Just like the harems of the past. Fine furnishings, sweet incense, satin cushions.” Adnan’s black eyes glinted like small glossy raisins, almost lost in the plumpness of his face. “But I have modern drugs to stimulate desire until my little darlings are wild to please their masters.”