Istanbul Express

by T. Davis Bunn

  “And strangle you all over again,” Jake agreed. “I don’t see why there hasn’t been American support for this.”

  The couple exchanged glances before Turgay responded quietly, “Nor do we, Colonel. Especially after we won almost a third of the parliamentary seats in the last election. But your government persists in seeing any opposition as a threat to stability and an entry point for the Communists. We have been trying to tell them that unless we are given an equal chance to express our views, in other words, be the opposition in the truest sense of the word, the risk of Communist revolt is even stronger. But it has been hard to find someone willing to hear us out. So very hard.”

  “I have been trying to set up a meeting like this one,” Anya added, “for almost a year.”

  “People are too busy, there is too much going on, they are worried about rocking the boat,” Turgay said. “We understand some of the reasons. But we disagree as well.”

  “So do I,” Jake agreed. “I don’t know if I can help, especially as I might be replaced in a matter of days. But maybe, just maybe, we can set some wheels in motion.”

  “This is the chance I have been searching for,” Turgay exclaimed, leaning forward in his seat. “Tell us what we need to do.”

  * * *

  The ferry from Istanbul to the Asian shore was a welcome release from the city’s fierce grip. “Istanbul is one of the most marvelous cities in the world,” Phyllis declared fondly. “It straddles Europe and Asia and joins the cultures of East and West. Not to mention the wealth of its past. So much history, so many civilizations, that time blurs, and the city comes to count the years as mortal man does minutes.”

  She pointed toward the approaching shore. “The lands that lie in Asia are known as Anatolia. Some of the local villagers declare themselves citizens of Anatolia, not Turkey. They are a fiercely patriotic lot.”

  Sally gazed across the azure waters to the gently sloping hills. “This is beautiful.”

  “There is talk of a bridge, but many are against it. I most certainly count myself among them. It would only mean more hurry and rush, and the city already has far too much of both.” She took a deeply satisfied breath of the sea breeze. “Crossing the Bosphorus by bridge would be like holding hands with gloves on. The thrill would simply be lost.”

  The city rising from the opposite shore had the look and feel of a sprawling village. The pace was slower, the air stiller, the buildings seedier, the people from a different age. Sally walked alongside the older woman and relished the delight of discovery.

  They passed a shop filled with vast piles of clutter. Outside, two men sat at a rickety table, the younger man listening eagerly to the elder’s lecture. Despite the heat, the old man wore a blue knit skullcap in the manner of one who seldom if ever took it off. Sprouting from either side was a flowing white beard that fell broad and square to cover the top three buttons of his tattered shirt. One hand curled around his cane, while the other directed the flow of conversation in the air between him and his younger companion.

  “My husband operated one of the largest foreign-owned companies in Turkey,” Phyllis said as they walked, her tone as casual as though she were discussing the weather. “In a land such as this, it is utterly impossible to disengage something of that size from the realm of politics and intrigue, so he inevitably found himself in the midst of things. He was as adamantly opposed to my own involvement as your husband is to yours. But in time he came to see me as an invaluable asset, able to hear things and visit places utterly closed to him.” She gave Sally a reassuring smile. “You must give him time, my dear. It is not true that men don’t change. They do, but ever so slowly.”

  A hint of the previous evening’s frustration resurfaced. “I’d rather watch a glacier melt.”

  The dimples reappeared. “You do my heart such good, my dear. If you will permit an ancient woman’s advice, perhaps you need to learn patience to match your own husband’s need for greater open-mindedness.”

  They stopped to permit passage to a young man in khaki overalls carrying a stack of empty oil cans. His load rose up to a level twice his height. A coiled blanket draped over his shoulders granted some padding to his back. The ropes that tied his load were tangled into one great knot, which he gripped with both hands. He huffed noisily with each step.

  The sight of the young man laboring like a pack horse sobered Phyllis. When he had passed, she said, “This is a country where the present is tangled with the past. For the rich, there are the pleasures of living where the cultures of Arabia are married to the lifestyle of the Mediterranean. For the poor, I am sorry to say, the life of serfdom still remains.”

  They took a cobblestone lane up between two buildings that appeared to be carved from the hillside. Despite her age, Phyllis maintained a brisk pace. Finally they stopped before an ancient house of wood and brick. It leaned tiredly upon its neighbor, the windows and doors and floors reset to remain more or less level. Phyllis raised her cane and rapped sharply on the doorframe. An older woman appeared in the entrance, as broad as she was tall, her head covered in a white scarf as translucent as a veil. She beamed toothlessly at the sight of Phyllis, backed up with as much a bow as she could manage, and invited them in.

  “It is polite to take off your shoes here,” Phyllis said quietly. The woman offered them pairs of house slippers decorated with brightly colored beads and hand-sewn designs, then led them through the foyer and into her home.

  The floors were of broad wooden planking, darkened with centuries of oil and polish. The carpets were gay, even those so worn that the designs had become mere grayish shadows. The living room table was broad and low and circular, and carved from a single sheet of bronze. An old man rose from a low divan and tottered over, hand outstretched. Phyllis greeted him with a genuine smile and words in Turkish. Sally allowed herself to be directed toward a padded couch standing barely a foot above the floor. She followed Phyllis’s example and half sat, half knelt with her skirt tucked tightly around her knees.

  Phyllis turned to her and said, “This gentleman used to be employed by my husband’s company. You will find that in these lands, such employment creates the sense of an extended family, with all the obligations and duties of a patriarch.”

  The old woman returned with a copper tray bearing four ceramic cups, each nestled within its own copper shell, and an oddly shaped long-handled vase. Instantly the room was filled with the fragrance of coriander and coffee. Sally said to Phyllis, “I didn’t know you spoke Turkish.”

  “Only a few words,” she replied modestly before returning to an animated discussion with the old man. The woman left once more and returned with a second tray, which she set down between Phyllis and Sally. It appeared to be filled with unbaked dumplings, each rolled in finely sifted flour. She then lifted the bronze pitcher and poured what to Sally looked like steaming black mud into each little cup. Sally accepted her cup with murmured thanks and looked doubtfully into the tarry depths. “I’m supposed to drink this?”

  “Let the sediment settle a little first,” Phyllis replied brightly. “And you must take one of these Turkish delights. They are homemade.”

  Sally looked at the tray again and realized, “They are coated with pure sugar.”

  Phyllis selected one, took a bite, hummed her appreciation to the beaming old couple. “Be sure and smile when you swallow.”

  Sally chose the smallest and forced herself to ignore the sugar dust that filtered into her mouth and nose as she raised it and bit. The glutinous mass melted to release the highest concentration of oversweetness she had ever experienced. She swallowed it as she would medicine, forced down the choking sensation, managed, “Absolutely amazing.”

  “That’s a dear,” Phyllis said, her eyes sparkling. “I do wish you could see your face just now.”

  Sally held grimly to her smile, lifted the cup, swallowed a mixture of fiery pungent coffee and grit. After the sweet, the coffee was not half bad.

  “Now finish the sweet,”
Phyllis instructed.

  Sally switched her forced smile toward the Englishwoman. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Eyes are upon you, my dear.” Phyllis finished her own, then licked her fingers in an ecstasy of appreciation. Sally watched her with astonishment, then without thinking what she was actually doing to her stomach, placed the remaining candy in her mouth and took it like an oversized pill. Phyllis smiled in approval. “Oh, well done.”

  “I am about to keel over with sugar shock,” Sally said brightly to the old couple.

  Phyllis laughed gaily and said something in Turkish. The couple beamed with delight and responded animatedly. Phyllis bowed her thanks and said, “They have just made to you a gift of all the remaining candies.”

  “I am absolutely speechless,” Sally said, bowing in turn.

  The discussion then took a somber turn, and the elderly couple spoke at length before permitting Phyllis time to turn and translate, “They have a son who is now working on a construction project some eighty miles from here.” She glanced at the couple, murmured, “It is most curious.”

  “What is?”

  “Well, they say that all the men there know that the project is funded by the Americans. But what they would want with a cultural center built miles from anywhere is baffling.”

  “Maybe they have it wrong.”

  “They positively insist that these two items are correct, that it is to be a cultural center, and that it is being financed by the Americans.” Phyllis’s normally cheerful demeanor was sobered by what she had heard. “But there is more. They say their son and all the other men are receiving two weekly payments. One is to do the construction, the other is to do it as slowly as possible.”

  “That,” Sally decided, “makes no sense at all.”

  “Quite. And yet they insist it is true. And they insist there is a rumor, well, actually more than a rumor, that this second payment is quietly coming from the Russians.”

  Chapter Nine

  “He wants to know,” Daniel Levy translated for Jake, “when the next installment is going to arrive.”

  “Tell him the same thing I said when he asked me five minutes ago,” Jake replied stubbornly. “When I’ve been satisfied that the first funds have been well spent.”

  They were seated in a tumbledown shanty propped next to a rubble-strewn pit on the outskirts of Istanbul. The documentation in Jake’s file had proclaimed that this was to become part of a new factory for the production of electronic components. All Jake could see for the money spent so far was a huge hole in the ground. He turned to Daniel. “Show them the bill for the steel.”

  Two men sat on the other side of the desk. One was dark and short and angry, his round face covered with stubble and sweat, his hands grimy and strong. The other was slender and nervous and a talker, filling the air with words that Daniel translated in swatches of nonsense. The young man accepted the sheet only reluctantly, barely glanced at the figures to which Daniel pointed, then continued with his dialogue: They had assumed there was an understanding with the American authorities. These delays in receiving payment were slowing down the construction process. Over and over, the same words, leaving nothing answered or resolved.

  Jake pointed at the bill which the man now held and said through Daniel, “That says my government has paid for seventeen tons of support girders. Where are they?”

  The man’s voice was a constant irritating drone. They are ordered, they are ordered, they are coming, it is all according to plan, yes, it is most unfortunate that the American gentleman does not have experience with Turkish building methods, but we are a poor country and payments must be made in advance. On and on and on the words poured from the nervous man, politely pressing for the release of funds, promising that everything was moving according to a schedule neither man could produce. All the while, his companion sat and smoldered and glared at Jake. Jake returned the stare as calmly as he could manage, feeling as though his brain were being turned to oatmeal by the endless verbiage, knowing they were intent on wearing him down.

  Jake rose, knowing this was the only way to stop the noise. “I will release more funds when the girders have been delivered and when the concrete foundation, which my records show we have also already paid for, has been laid.”

  The burly man spoke for the first time, his words gnashed between grinding teeth. Daniel translated quietly, his calm murmur untouched by neither fatigue nor the others’ rising unease. “Delay any further, and all work will stop.”

  “I don’t see work being done anyway,” Jake retorted, not fazed in the least by the man’s ire. He would far prefer a battle with the builder than this endless tirade from the bureaucrat. A sudden thought caused him to ask the suited gentleman, “Are you from the government or from the construction company?”

  The nervousness increased, the stream of words quickened. Before Daniel could translate, Jake held up his hand. “One word will do. We’re going to start getting some straight answers around here, or I am pulling out of this mess entirely.” When Daniel hesitated before translating, Jake glanced his way and said, “Tell them that word for word.”

  The atmosphere within the shanty instantly electrified when the words had been said. The burly man rose to his feet, shouting and gesticulating. The nervous man poured out a continual battering of words. Jake motioned with his chin for Daniel to stand. “I’ve had my fill. We’re going to see some real work done, and we’re going to start getting straight answers, or we’re shutting you down.” Daniel had to raise his voice to be heard. When the translation was completed, Jake ignored the response. He finished, “And that is final.”

  When they were back in the consular car, Jake said, “You can’t tell me that what we saw there is normal progress, even for here.”

  “Construction materials are in short supply, so partial payment in advance could be argued for.” Daniel mulled it over, then decided, “But no, what they have done so far does not explain the urgent need for more funds. And their attitude is a mystery.”

  “Totally baffling,” Jake agreed.

  “It is as if they were intentionally trying to slow us down.”

  Jake stared at the bearded man. “What makes you say that?”

  “One would expect those who are faced with having their funds discontinued at least to offer something definite to ease the tension. A written time plan, a bit of progress, a willingness to meet you halfway.” Daniel added apologetically, “Perhaps they know of your own dilemma and think they can outlast you. But if so, why did they not simply refuse to meet with you? I have the feeling that something else is at work here.”

  “As though they wanted to tie us up in knots,” Jake suggested, “so we wouldn’t look anywhere else.”

  Daniel considered this, his eyes never leaving Jake’s face. “You have heard something?”

  “My wife did.” Swiftly he related what Sally had told him about the matrioshka dolls and the tour guide’s warning.

  “Perhaps this is indeed confirmation of her rumor.” Daniel stroked his beard, said distractedly, “Your wife must be a remarkable woman.”

  “Yes, she is,” Jake said, and felt a renewed pang over their argument. He changed the subject with, “If anyone asks, I want you to appear to be working strictly on this one project. But in truth I want you to set this aside and look for something else.” Jake ran back over the discussion and shook his head. “That project was a mess, but it’s not enough to keep the ax from falling on my assignment.”

  “You think there are watchers within the consulate?”

  “Watchers, definitely. Whether or not they’re actually working for the other side, I can’t say. But with the pressure we’re under, it’s a risk we can’t afford to take.”

  * * *

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Pierre said, picking his way over the uneven cobblestones. “We are going to spend our evening with a man who does not like us, studying a religion that is not ours, learning from someone who does
not want to teach.”

  Jake stopped to face his friend. “Are you about finished?”

  “Forgive me, my friend. I am French. You must use your more sensible American mind to explain how I have this wrong.”

  “In the first place, how can he dislike you if he’s never met you?”

  “An excellent question,” Pierre replied somberly. “I must ask him that myself.”

  “In the second, the Torah is the Jewish term for the Books of Moses, the first five Books of the Bible. Our Bible. Theirs and ours.”

  “I am beginning to see the light.”

  “Ever since I started studying the Old Testament,” Jake went on, “I’ve wondered how the Jews see this book, which was given to them by God. Given to them. They had the Old Testament Scriptures in their possession for over a thousand years before Christ brought the answer to the entire world. They were the first crucible, Pierre. They were the ones who showed that the law alone was not enough.”

  “I believe I know you as well as anyone, save your wonderful wife,” Pierre murmured. “Yet still you manage to surprise me at the unseen turn.”

  “This is a great opportunity,” Jake persisted.

  Pierre grasped Jake’s arm and turned them about. “Then come, my friend. Let us go and continue with the adventure of learning.”

  Jake had returned from work to find Sally still out, her succinct note saying only that she had gone for some sightseeing and shopping. He had pushed aside his disappointment at not being able to apologize in person and tried as best he could to do it in a note. He had then found Pierre in the lobby, sulking over the continued frustration of being trapped within a meaningless cycle of functions and events. Jasmyn, he had reported dejectedly, was at a tea party given by the consul general’s wife. Jake had taken pity on his friend and invited him along to his study time with Daniel Levy’s father.