“I’m supposed to meet with Phyllis this morning. She’s trying to set something up, I don’t know what.”
“So it’s Phyllis now, is it.”
Sally nodded, still distracted. “Jasmyn’s already left for someplace called the Sophia Mosque, I think I’ve got that right. She’s meeting the woman who took us through the palace.” She looked up at him. “If we find out anything, should we come by the consulate?”
Jake sighed and gave in as the pressures rose to surround him. “You can try. I don’t know where I’ll be.” He sketched out what he had learned yesterday, including his meetings at the construction site and opposition headquarters.
Sally listened with increasing seriousness. “You have to watch out as well, Jake.”
“I know.”
“These people aren’t going to just let you walk off with their fat little contracts.”
“I’ll be careful, Sally.”
“Especially if they’re pocketing part of the proceeds.” She started to wring her hands, looked down and saw what she was doing, searched for the pockets to her robe. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
“I’ve already arranged for backup,” he said, and explained about the Marine guards.
“Well, they won’t do any good unless you take them along.” She reached for him again, a grip intensified with fear and love. “Go,” she whispered, “and come back safe.”
* * *
Jake entered his office and said to Daniel in greeting, “Ever heard of a place called Kumdare?”
Daniel froze, one hand deep inside the last of the unsorted boxes. “How did you know?”
The stance and the tone were all the warning Jake needed. Quietly he shut the outer door, walked over, spoke more quietly, “Know what?”
“One bill I have found, just one. And just this morning.” Daniel eased himself upright. “But already you have heard of it.”
“A rumor,” Jake said, and told him what Sally had learned.
Long wax-colored fingers rose to stroke his beard. “You think maybe this is the project our opponents wish to keep hidden?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. You say there’s a bill?”
“Just one. But the largest so far. A requisition, really, simply confirming that payment was required for work done up to . . .” Daniel searched through the clutter on his desk, came up with a single hand-written invoice, finished, “. . . the beginning of last week. For a cultural center, or so it says here.”
“Have you ever heard of this place?”
“Never.” Daniel shook his head, his eyes not leaving Jake’s face. “All my life I have lived and worked in Istanbul, and this village is unknown to me.”
“How are the roads outside Istanbul?”
“Very bad,” Daniel replied without hesitation. “And to the smaller villages, even worse.”
“Strange place to set up a center for anything,” Jake mused, then decided, “Go downstairs and see if you can set up a priority call to London. It’s time I had another chat with Harry Grisholm.”
* * *
“Once, this great city was called Byzantium, a small Greek fishing village on a naturally protected outcrop of land. Then it became Constantinople, home to the last Roman emperors and center of the civilized world. Later came the Islamic invasion and the Ottoman Empire. Now it is a city clinging to the edge of Western civilization, an uneasy mix of cultures and histories.”
Jasmyn nodded and kept her face politely alert as they walked at a measured pace through the rubble-strewn parkland. Jana played the cheerful tour guide, one of many leading groups or individuals along the crowded lanes. “At its height, the palace begun by Constantine had five hundred public halls and thirty chapels. All that is left now is this ragged garden, these crumbling walls and pillars, and these fading mosaics set in what is now a field of rubble.”
They crossed the grand square and walked toward the Sophia Mosque, joining a throng of chattering pilgrims. As they climbed the stairs, Jasmyn followed Jana’s example and tied a kerchief about her head. Inside, the great dome seemed almost translucent, with decorations as delicate as a painting upon porcelain. The grand expanse of floor was cushioned by multiple layers of carpets. The light was filtered and gentle and as still as the dust which drifted in the air.
“The Church of Aga Sophia was originally built fifteen hundred years ago by the Emperor Justinian.” Jana examined the younger woman and asked, “You are Christian, yes?”
“I am.”
“Does it trouble you to see that such ancient churches are now mosques?”
“A little.” Jasmyn reined in her impatience and looked to where a giant mosaic of Mary and the Christ child decorated one wall of the upper balcony. The walls around it were scarred by what appeared from that distance to be sword thrusts, as though ancient warriors had scraped off all but that one lonely mosaic. To either side, towering pillars supported great black shields twice the height of a man, upon which were emblazoned Arabic script in fiery gold. Directly overhead, the great dome seemed to hover in space. “At least the structure is still here.”
“Indeed so. This mighty building has survived lootings, wars, and earthquakes. In fact, it is built upon the foundations of a church erected two hundred years earlier by Constantine himself. That church was destroyed by a fire.” Jana pointed about at other mosaics, half-figures whose faces had been left while their bodies were destroyed, prophets reaching out across the centuries, and scarred images of the risen Christ. “There were great arguments about these, as Islam forbids the making of images. But any which were somewhat hidden, like those in the upper balconies, and all that depicted prophets shared by both Islam and Christianity were permitted to remain.”
Jana led Jasmyn toward the front, saying, “When the church was converted to a mosque, fragments of the Byzantine furnishings were kept and used.” She pointed to the pulpit, the entrance adorned with a velvet drape embossed with Arabic script. “That pulpit, for example, is twelve hundred years old. And these carpets cover a vast array of Byzantine mosaics.”
Jasmyn took a deep breath of air laden with dusty age and asked quietly, “Are we being followed?”
“I cannot say for certain,” Jana said, and smiled brightly as she pointed out one of the great black shields. “But I fear so.”
Jasmyn nodded and tried to hold her attention where the tour guide directed. “Why are we here?”
“Are you aware of a village called Kumdare?”
Jasmyn started at the word, recalling her conversation with Sally the night before. “Why do you ask?”
Jana threw her a shrewd glance before returning her attention to the gold-encrusted dome. “It is good to be cautious with strangers such as myself. Kumdare is the name of a village on the Asiatic coast. The Americans are supposed to be building there. For some reason, the Russians have taken great interest in this project.” She dropped her arm, turned, and smiled with false animation. “Whatever it is that you seek, it appears that you may find the answer there. Only take care. The Russians will do anything to protect their secrets.”
* * *
“Jake!” Harry Grisholm’s cheery tone rose above the telephone’s crackling static. “How nice to hear from you. How are you, my boy?”
“Well as can be expected,” Jake shouted back. “When are you arriving?”
“I still cannot say for certain, but I am pushing hard as possible for sometime early next week.”
“No good.” Jake gave a succinct version of the pressures he faced, then stopped and listened to the static. “Harry?”
“I’m still here, my boy.” For once the almost constant cheeriness had failed him. “It sounds as though they have us both over the diplomatic barrel.”
“Sure looks that way to me,” Jake agreed. “Have you ever heard of some project we’re supposed to be financing at Kumdare?”
A second silence ensued, cut off by Harry saying, “Now that you mention it, something about a cultural center. Do
I recall correctly?”
“That’s what I have here,” Jake called back. “But why—”
“Absolutely unimportant,” Harry cut him off. “What is extremely vital is that you keep a watchful eye. Are you reading me, Jake?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, scrambling to locate a pen and paper. “You’re saying this center at Kumdare—”
“Is totally insignificant.” Even the crackling line could not disguise the sudden tension in Harry’s voice. “You recall our previous conversation, my boy?”
“About listening in.”
“Precisely. I command you to watch carefully and use your post to observe. Then, whatever happens, you can return from this with useful lessons. Are you following me?”
“Trying hard,” he said, writing out those words to which Harry had given special emphasis.
“Very good. There is little time left, Jake. I am counting on you to hold to what is of the utmost importance.”
“You can count on me,” Jake said, inserting a confidence he did not feel.
“I have no choice, so long as my hands remain tied here. Take care, my gallant friend, and remember me to your charming wife.”
Jake looked down at the words he had scribbled and shouted, “Daniel!”
The bearded face appeared in the doorway, inspected him, declared, “You have learned something.”
“Maybe.” Jake reread the words on his paper. “If I understood him correctly, it’s not going to be a cultural center at all. It’s a command post. For observation.”
Daniel stared at him. “Observation of what?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Jake sprang for the door. “I’ve got to run for that meeting with Turgay. You try and contact Pierre Servais at the French embassy. Go over there in person, don’t trust the phones. Tell him we leave in two hours.” Jake was halfway through the outer office before turning back around and saying to the utterly baffled young man, “And if you can get either Adams or Bailey of the Marine detachment alone, tell them the exact same thing.”
Chapter Eleven
Sally rushed down one cobblestone lane after another. With each step she grew more certain that she had gone astray from Phyllis Hollamby’s directions. Domes and minarets poked through Istanbul’s perpetual cover of dust and noise. The city wore a scruffy look, as though the builders were in such a hurry to move on that nothing was ever quite finished and no one had time to clean up afterward. But the vibrancy was stronger than anywhere Sally had ever been, an electric quality that caught her early in the morning and held her tight in its excited grip all day.
Faces in the crowd were dark and Oriental and extremely friendly. Sally finally stopped an old man and asked for directions. He rewarded her with a great beam of welcome and a stream of Turkish. He then proceeded to halt a well-heeled woman carrying a shopping bag. She too gave a smile in Sally’s direction. That proved to be not enough, so she walked over and gave Sally’s hand an energetic pumping, then offered another stream of unintelligible words, followed by a great hoot of laughter shared with the old man. They then stopped a third person, and then a fourth, until within five minutes Sally was surrounded by a crowd of some fifteen people, all smiling and kindly chattering away to her and pointing in fifteen different directions.
Eventually one elderly woman took her hand, and with a gap-toothed smile gently led her down the street in the same direction from which she had come.
“Spice market,” Sally insisted.
The woman responded with a great smile and more Turkish, tugging her cheerfully along the crowded lane.
Five minutes later Sally was rewarded with a cheery, “Ah, there you are, my dear. How utterly splendid.” Phyllis smiled at the old woman still holding to Sally’s hand. “Busy making friends, are we?”
“I got lost, and she adopted me.”
Phyllis exchanged a stream of conversation with the delighted old woman, who would only go after having given Sally’s hand yet another shake, then kissing her on the cheek. Phyllis waved as she walked off, and said to Sally, “This ability of yours to make friends will serve you well, my dear. Is the delightful Jasmyn still with Jana?”
“I guess so. She is supposed to meet us here when she is done.”
“Splendid.” Phyllis turned toward the entrance of what appeared to be a stubby brick warehouse with three central domes. “Well, then, perhaps we should begin.”
The extended roofline cut a dark swathe through the gathering heat. Phyllis led her into the welcoming shade and told her, “When Egypt fell to the Ottomans, suddenly a flood of exotic roots, seeds, fruits, and spices appeared along the docks of Istanbul. That gave rise to the Egyptian Market, or Spice Market as it is also known today.”
Sally allowed herself to be led inside, and discovered that the warehouse was neither square nor short, as the exterior suggested. Instead, the grand colonnaded hall extended in three vast lanes, the vaulted ceiling rising forty feet above her head. Crowded around the ancient columns were shops selling everything from oranges to ground cumin. The air was heavy with the fragrance of cinnamon, coriander, bay leaf, and lavender.
“The building was originally made of wood,” Phyllis continued merrily. “But gunpowder was sold here as a cure for hemorrhoids, and too many of the stalls kept blowing holes in the old roof. So three hundred years ago the sultan had it rebuilt in stone. They did a lovely job, don’t you agree?”
“You make it sound like it all happened yesterday,” Sally replied.
“If you wish to make Istanbul a part of yourself, you must treat time as the city does. Days and weeks and months and years and even centuries will gradually begin to melt together before your very eyes.”
Sally examined the older woman. “Why are you helping us out so much?”
“Because I have absolutely nothing else to fill my days.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It is true nonetheless.” Phyllis raised her free hand to the side of her face. In that simple motion, all her years lay exposed. The hand was age-spotted, the fingers shook gently, and they missed the first time they wiped at the damp that gathered at the corner of her mouth. “My George perished seven years ago. I started to return to England, but my goodness, since I have lived all my adult life out here, what on earth was I to return to?”
“You don’t have any children?”
“One daughter. She lives in Portsmouth and complains of how her dear mama refuses to simply lie down and give up the ghost, as she feels all elderly old windbags should do upon demand.”
“You are not that elderly,” Sally replied, liking her tremendously. “And most certainly not a windbag.”
“Thank you, my dear. But I do confess, were it not for my inner source of strength and the occasional opportunity to make a difference in this way, life and this burden of years would simply be too much for me to bear. I have always been active, you see. It is this feeling that I still have something worthy to contribute that keeps me going.”
Sally waved as Jasmyn came into view and said to Phyllis, “You have certainly contributed to making things better for us since we came. We can’t thank you enough.”
“I have done it as much for myself as for you,” Phyllis replied, smiling a welcome to Jasmyn. “By giving, I am rewarded beyond measure. Freely I have received, freely will I give on to others.”
Sally stared at the older woman. “You are a believer?”
“I try my best to follow the Lord’s call.” She turned to Jasmyn, asked, “How are you, my dear?”
“Troubled,” she replied, her beautiful face clouded.
“Yes, that I can most certainly see. Alas, that is the problem of dealing with anything tainted by the Russians these days. They do so love to stir the waters with trouble and intrigue.”
“But I did not mention the Russians.”
“You did not need to.” Phyllis Hollamby turned both women around by starting down the central hall herself. “Unfortunately, their interes
t in Turkey has become almost suffocating. Identify any distressing crisis, and you will most likely find the Soviets at work.”
“And this Jana,” Jasmyn demanded. “You are sure we can trust her?”
“Ah, she had information for you, did she? Excellent. Yes, Jana is a remarkable young woman. Her father worked as office assistant to my husband, and we have helped with the cost of her education. She is doing further work in political science and will someday be a force to be reckoned with, mark my words. She is fiercely patriotic and sees the Soviets as the greatest single threat to her country’s future. Yes indeed, you may certainly trust her and any information she manages to gather on your behalf.”
As they walked by one brilliant display after another, Jasmyn outlined what she had heard from the young woman. Phyllis heard her out, then pointed them toward a stall with the words, “Let us hear what this friend has to say, shall we?”
Sally followed her over, asked doubtfully, “And then?”
“And then, my dear, we shall find it time to make a decision.” Phyllis beamed as the wizened stallholder doffed his cap and bowed at their approach. He stood among wicker baskets piled high with ground spices, their odors a pungent perfume. There were clove and coriander, cumin and curry, pepper and basil and bay, all the colors and smells of the Orient. The man was as timeless as the market, aged somewhere between forty and eighty, his grin almost toothless and his eyes almost lost in leathery folds. Phyllis pointed toward several piles, and the man used a small scoop to fill one bag after another, weighing each on an ancient scale using tiny copper weights, arguing politely with her over prices. He filled the intervals with murmured snatches of conversation, a flurry of words that gradually tightened both their faces, until Phyllis finally pressed money into his hand and turned from his final bow with a taut smile.
Sally waited until they had moved away before demanding quietly, “What is the matter?”
Istanbul Express Page 12
