I got it, I really did. I understood that urge to want to hold onto the past, and I almost felt sympathy for Rose. But I was on vacation from solving problems, archaeological or criminal. I liked being done with work at the historical archaeology conference in Istanbul, I liked being away from my part-time consulting for the Massachusetts State Police. I liked not being an expert. Now Rose had reminded me of all that, and I couldn't forgive her. As we scurried through the raindrops onto the bus, I was glad the situation was dealt with and out of my hands, but I was annoyed all the same.
"Okay, go ahead," Brian whispered, as he sat down next to me. The bus was abuzz with what Rose had done. "I can see you're about to burst."
"On Mount Nemrut, there were signs in Turkish, English, French, and German, telling us not to climb on the mound behind the statues," I whispered. "At every stop, Lale reminded us not to go off the paths or move away from the group. Hell, Brian, there were signs in the airport saying not to mess with the antiquities. Rose knew what she was doing."
I looked away. "Why do people go on these tours, if they're not going to respect the culture? I'm not even talking about the past. Randy only complains about the toilets, Rose is practically a kleptomaniac. Eugene is asleep when he's not asking how expensive something is. Jack seems to think it's just a moving buffet, and Harold, Harold never says anything to anyone, just stalks around like a great tall stick insect, puffing on his cigars and watching us like we're acting in a play for him. What's the point?"
"Lots of things. People travel for all sorts of reasons. It's allowed."
"Well—no. It shouldn't be." I felt better for having let off steam, but was still pouting.
"So only highly trained professionals and their spouses—who've been beaten into submission with interminable lectures—should be allowed to travel and see sights, maybe learn something? Even if it's only that they like home more?"
The corners of my mouth twitched. "Yes. I've decided. Make it so."
"How about if I buy you an ice cream at the next stop, instead?" We'd become addicted to the many varieties of gas-station freezer goodies we'd encountered during our long drives across the country.
"Fine. I may jam it up Rose's butt, though."
"Your call. Waste of a good ice cream, you ask me."
A short drive took us out of the rain and back into the bright sun. The weather was just as variable as the landscape in Turkey, which could change two or three times a day, shifting from vast brown plains in the morning to rolling green hills with red soil in the afternoon. I found myself thinking one moment, "That plain looks like fields in the Midwest," and the next, "Those cliffs remind me of Hawaii." Every once in a while, we'd go through a small city that was a blend of modern shops, rows of tiny specialty stores, and covered-over marketplaces selling everything from pots and pans to prayer beads to cell phones. The clothing on the women changed too, as we headed north and west, and while I always saw plenty of them dressed in traditional baggy trousers, overshirts, and head scarves, as we neared the outskirts of Ankara, the capital, I saw fashions I couldn't distinguish from home in New England.
We arrived at what I imagined would be the highlight of the day, on a par with the view at Mount Nemrut. If there's anything in the world I love more than exploring sites, it's going behind the scenes in a museum. Seeing things in their cases can be a treat, but getting to see them up close, with no Plexiglas separating you, is an extraordinary event.
We would be coming back to the museum tomorrow for a formal tour of the public collections, but Lale had studied with Dr. Saatchi and wanted to show off the prizes of the museum to us.
"Hey, Em. Calm down," Brian said. "You look like you gotta pee."
I realized I was bouncing around a little, and tried to chill out. My good mood lessened when I saw Lale take Dr. Saatchi aside and hand him the small object Rose had taken. He frowned and asked her several questions. He glanced at Rose, and then, after Lale said something else, glanced at me. I nodded. He continued with Lale in Turkish.
With a gesture that said the matter was over, he pocketed the clay disc. I was surprised when Lale led him over to me.
"Dr. Fielding, I am pleased to meet you. I used your paper on trade goods on early American sites to do something similar with trading centers in Asia Minor."
A little shocked, I shook his hand. "I'm delighted it was useful to you."
"Well, we have so many cultures, so much history in Turkey, we are happy to use whatever tools best give us a clear picture of the past."
Brian nudged me; I raised one eyebrow and gave him a mock-serious frown. Yes, I was totally awesome; he shouldn't ruin it by acting like this didn't happen all the time. This was one situation where I didn't mind bringing my profession into my vacation.
Lale explained that Dr. Saatchi would be showing us important artifacts from sites from all over Turkey, including finds from the Roman, Greek, Persian, and Hittite cultures. We'd be seeing things from as far back as the Assyrian and Babylonian cultures; southeastern Turkey, with the headwaters of the Tigris and Euphrates, had been part of Mesopotamia two millennia BCE.
He unveiled a tray of tiny treasures in glass and stone and clay. Their colors ranged from shiny black to bone white, including pale pink, brown tiger-stripes, deep blue, spotted green, and blood red.
First was a group of cylinder and stamp seals; with their tiny images and symbols, they looked like beads no longer than my fingertip. Alongside them were the impressions made by them on soft clay, showing how the marks would have appeared on wax.
"I saw on the news that a lot of those kinds of things were stolen from the museum in Baghdad during the war," Eugene said. "They were worth thousands and thousands of dollars."
Leave it to Eugene, I thought. He was right, though; there would be a small fortune in just a handful of the objects before us.
Some of the other pieces were similar to the one Rose had just handed over, simple discs that could be used in any number of games. Another object was a reconstructed bracelet, the beads restrung into a rainbow interspersed with gold.
"It looks like yours, Tiff!" Nicole exclaimed.
Tiffany held out her necklace, purchased from one of the many vendors we encountered at all of the sites. Although she might have found a similar souvenir anywhere in the world—little glass beads were, after all, just little glass beads—she was pleased.
Even more spectacular were the metallic objects on the next tray: coins and jewelry in silver, gold, and bronze. And one very small piece was possibly the most valuable on the whole table. A tiny bronze figure of a stylized horse, possibly a votive offering to one of the many gods in Anatolia, which made up most of what is modern Turkey.
"Every object, no matter its monetary value," Dr. Saatchi said, "has a story to tell us, about the people who owned it, where it came from, and how it got here. That history—"
A klaxon sounded at near-deafening levels. Randy started; his flailing hand knocked into Brian, who had been taking a close-up of one of the coins.
Artifacts scattered from the velvet-covered table. Everyone automatically bent to gather them.
"Fire alarm!" Lale called out. "Please do not touch anything! Follow me out of the room. Be careful not to step on anything!"
A few people set the artifacts on the tray and we filed out and hurried down the hall to the main entrance. Constitutionally unable to pass a vendor or shop without stopping, Randy paused at the displays of the museum store. He began to pick through the piles of loose beads.
"Please, we must leave the building, Randy." Lale was remarkably polite, considering. "We will return shortly, and the shop will still be open."
Another group of tourists, presumably doing a walking tour of the city, paused nearby us outside the museum, while their guide explained the history and importance of the artifacts inside. The fire-alarm racket made the guide have to speak up, and she apparently made a joke: The group looked around and laughed. I certainly hoped they'd be going in tomor
row, as it seemed rather silly for them only to view the outside of the building.
Lale, ever alert to maximize the good in any situation, saw a woman cooking in the front of a tiny storefront restaurant. After introducing herself, she spoke rapidly to her in Turkish, then gestured for us all to gather round as waiters handed us all glass cups of tea on saucers with tiny spoons and two pieces of lump sugar.
"Mrs. Kaya has offered to do a demonstration of Turkish cooking for us while we wait to return to the museum."
The tour group outside the museum had apparently seen our tea and were pressing in. I frowned when someone pushed a little too hard.
Get your own Mrs. Kaya, I thought. She's ours.
"Jack, Harold, if you would like to gather round?" Lale said.
I stepped over to let Jack in, as Mrs. Kaya spoke rapid-fire Turkish to Lale, who translated for us. The older woman nipped off small pieces of dough with her fingertips, stretching them out flat, then she made a well with a deft gesture of her thumb. She filled the dough with a small pinch of what looked like ground beef and herbs, pinching the sides closed at the top, making a dumpling no larger than my thumbnail.
"This is manti," Lale explained. "Although Mrs. Kaya uses lamb, you can use ground beef, and after they're boiled, you top them with fresh yogurt and browned butter and chili powder. It is one of my favorite dishes from childhood."
She spoke again to Mrs. Kaya, who dusted off her hand and brushed Lale's cheek in an affectionate, grandmotherly gesture. Mrs. Kaya continued working, but called to one of her assistants. Soon we were all given spoons and were sampling the finished project.
Across the little knot of our group, I saw Brian jotting down notes without taking his eyes off Mrs. Kaya's movements. She'd moved on to rolling up seasoned rice in grape leaves, with a series of motions that were so fluid they could only have been acquired after years of practice. The finished product was thinner than I expected, no thicker than a pen or a marker, and perfectly wrapped.
Mrs. Kaya spoke. "If any of you would like to try to do this yourselves, you may now," Lale translated. "This is an excellent opportunity to learn from a real home-style cook at work."
Immediately, Brian, Tiffany, and Jack stepped forward. "This is what I'm talking about," Jack said enthusiastically. "Never mind the old stuff, point me towards lunch."
Each was given a pickled grape leaf and shown how to fold it around the rice. Brian got better with each try, and soon, about a half-dozen slender tubes were arranged by his plate. Mrs. Kaya pursed her lips and nodded once.
Tiffany kept giggling, posing for Nicole to take her picture. "Look, I'm doing something cultural!"
Jack's efforts were more labored, but he proceeded gamely. He grabbed one of the misshapen rolls and popped it into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly to general laughs.
"Well, traditionally we wait until they are steamed," Lale said diplomatically.
At that moment, a guard from the museum came over and whispered something to Lale. Her smile vanished, and she inquired about something. I cursed my lack of Turkish beyond "hello," "thank you," and other tourist necessities.
"We must return to the museum." She spoke to Mrs. Kaya, gave her a small gift of money for the demonstration, then guided us back.
The alarm was off now, but the staff was buzzing like bees in a kicked hive. We were still the only tourists around, and it was after official hours. Surely we wouldn't be continuing now, when it was so late?
Lale waited for Harold to join us, and when Randy beat a path for the shop, she spoke sharply. "I'm afraid we must stay close together, Randy. I have some very disturbing news. There are some artifacts missing."
"From the ones we were looking at? But none of us even touched them."
But some of us had. I remembered the instinct to retrieve them myself. Several people had replaced the small, elusive objects on the cloth after we were told to leave.
"No, of course not. Dr. Saatchi is concerned that perhaps they might have accidentally gotten snagged on a sock or in a cuff, when the tray went flying. We would like to put your bags through the X-ray machine again, as we did when we came in. Just to be sure. And, if you wouldn't mind turning out your pockets? I'm sure no one would take anything on purpose, but when everything went flying, it is possible . . ."
She ended lamely, and I knew she was only doing her job, which had just become a hundred times more difficult. Both her professional and personal reputation were at stake.
"Well, I'm not going to—" Rose said, gathering herself up for a long-winded refusal.
"I'll go first," I said quickly. If I could cut her protests off, maybe everyone else would fall into line, and we could get this sorted out. Or at least, remove ourselves from the equation.
I handed Lale my bag, which she handed to the guard, and it went through the X-ray. Then the guard went through the bag by hand, after I nodded permission. I emptied out my pockets onto the table, then pulled them out to show they were empty. To finish the point, I checked the bottoms of my hiking shoes, to make sure there was nothing caught in the treads. Nothing.
It took me an embarrassingly long time to sort the large pile of tissues, Purell bottles, Swiss Army knife, lira coins, sunglasses, phrase book, and camera back into the pockets of my shirt and trousers.
"Jeez," someone muttered. "I've seen pool halls with fewer pockets." There were a few nervous giggles. Good; anything to break up the tension.
Brian stepped up next, and I could have kissed him.
Jack went after him, shrugging. "I don't like this," he said. "But I've got nothing to hide."
Although Eugene Tollund didn't rebel, he followed, with poor grace. "Not what I paid so much money for," he mumbled.
Rose was still talking up and down about police and rights and citizenship, when Randy finally said, "Rosie, just do it."
She did, eventually, but still invoking the embassy and her cousin, the alderman, at home. Nicole and Tiffany followed, but reluctantly, exchanging meaningful glances.
No one had any of the missing artifacts.
"The Storm God's gonna be totally pissed now," Nicole whispered.
We went to our hotel that night tired, dusty, and bewildered. None of the missing artifacts—including the votive horse—had been recovered, and Lale had been on her cell phone almost nonstop. I was curious as to how she would handle the situation. I found myself going over to offer my help, when I felt an arm on my shoulder.
"It's not your problem to solve," Brian said. "And if there has been a theft, I'm sorry to say you're as much a suspect as anyone here."
"More," Harold added suddenly. "You're one of the few people who knows anything about this stuff."
For his first time talking directly to me, it was a hell of a thing to say. I gave Harold a sour look.
He shrugged. "I'm just calling it like I see it."
I nodded to Brian. "You're right; this isn't my problem to solve. Say, this is an American chain hotel, right? With an American-style bar? I could use an American-style whiskey."
Brian and I sat up late, with a couple of drinks, which were hugely refreshing. We'd been careful to avoid the local water, and cold drinks, besides beer and the licorice-flavored raki, were rare. We were alone; Harold was on the other side of the bar, having refused our invitation to sit with us. He was handling his lighter like he was jonesing for a cigar, and eventually, he removed a metal tube from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and shook the cigar out. Nodding to us, he said goodnight.
Harold didn't go to the elevators, though. He went outside. A brief flare of the lighter, and he vanished.
"Randy kept wandering over to the gift shop," Brian said, when he noticed I couldn't seem to focus on anything else with real attention. "I know he's got this magpie-like compulsion, but it really was excessive today. If he did it, I wondered if he hadn't stashed something over there."
"Hiding the real thing among the souvenir beads and the imitation coins and seals?" I tilted my head. "It would
make sense. If he took it."
"He bumped up against my camera when the alarm went off," Brian reminded me. "Maybe he was making a distraction, so his wife could snag a few things. We know she has a taste for unsupervised antiquities. Or perhaps she picked up that gaming disc intentionally, as a distraction? A way for their eyes to be on Lale and her talking to Dr. Saatchi while her husband did the work?"
I shrugged. "Seems too elaborate. And she couldn't count on finding something at the sites we visited. There was nothing on her when they searched her. Of course, that doesn't mean she or Randy couldn't have done it."
Brian thought a minute. "We all went outside. Maybe the thief stashed it somewhere outside the museum?"
That was a glum thought. "Okay, with objects so small, they could be hidden anywhere. Let's rule that out for a minute. Was anyone missing during the food demonstration?"
"No. Well, Steve was at the hotel, sick, but the rest of us, we were all there." Brian counted off on his fingers. "Lale had to round us all up. Jack, Harold, and I were there in the middle, trying to roll the grape leaves into tubes and get the manti to stay stuck together. Everyone else was there, because I remember Lale was very careful to keep a head count. I don't envy her; it's like herding cats, keeping track of everyone. Tiffany and Nicole were there too—remember, they were taking all those pictures? Since they're always scampering off, I remember looking around for them."
"They seem awful young to be on such an expensive trip," I said. "And usually twenty-somethings are, I don't know, going to more popular destinations, don't you think? Rome or the Greek islands?"
"Or Ibiza," Brian agreed. The young ladies in question were now in the lobby, chatting up our young—and very dishy—van driver, Emin. More blushes, more giggles, more photos.
That reminded me: As we headed to the end of the trip, I wanted to organize some tips from all of us for Emin and for Lale. They were well paid, but had done such a good job—
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 Page 6
