Istanbul Passage (22 page)

“What?” Kay said.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking the mood off. “You know the sultans used to light their garden parties with turtles? They’d put candles on their backs and let them wander around. Hundreds of them.”

She looked at him. “The things you know.”

He helped her out of the boat, handing her up to a houseboy, hand outstretched, the cabin passengers lining up behind them. He looked across the strait to Rumeli Hisari, just up the road from where Alexei had landed, not deserted tonight, busy with taxis dropping off people for Lily’s party. While Alexei sat smoking in Laleli, listening for sounds in the hall, turning the chessboard around—unless he was checking exits again. How much longer before something happened? Get the papers from Manyas and go.

“You’re right,” Kay said, looking through the open doors. “She does float.”

Lily was greeting people near the fountain that splashed softly in the center of the reception hall, now talking to Georg Ritter and a burly man Leon didn’t recognize. She was wearing a silk caftan with gold embroidery that billowed as she moved, her hair swept up, seemingly by the wind, in a high bun, held in place by two jeweled combs.

“Leon,” she said, coming over as a boy took their coats. “How wonderful, you brought her. I’m so glad,” she said to Kay, taking her hand. “How pretty you look. Such a lovely dress.” She gave it an
appraising look, which Leon followed, the first time he’d seen her without her coat. A long off-white dress with a deep V-neck, cinched at the waist by a silver cord, a simple butterfly pin near her shoulder, garnet he guessed, like a piece of red that had dropped out of her hair.

“Thank you for having me. Your house—” She broke off, suddenly awkward. “I’ve never seen a
yali
.”

“It’s not one of the old ones, though, you know. Just nineteenth century, when everyone was in love with France.” She gestured toward the facade. “Now the one next door—”

“The one that burned?”

Lily nodded. “Poor Selim. Now that was the real thing. Tulip Period. And now it’s gone. He says he’s going to restore it, but they never do, do they? Just build something new. Do you know Dr. Ritter? He’s at the university. An
éminence grise.
”

“Grise? Blanche,”
Georg said, pointing to his hair. He took Kay’s hand. “But delighted. Leon, I was hoping you’d be here.”

Now introductions were made, Georg bringing over the other man. “Ivan Melnikov,” he said to everybody. “Mrs. Bishop. Leon Bauer.”

“Melnikov?” Leon said involuntarily, hearing Alexei’s voice.

“Yes, you know me?” he said, his voice direct, too blunt for the frothy room, someone who might bump into the furniture. A broad, weathered face, pitted, maybe scarred years ago by acne.

“No. The name seems familiar, that’s all.”

“It’s common, the name. Mrs. Bishop. The Bishop at the embassy?”

“You see?” Lily said. “Everybody knows everybody in Istanbul.”

“You know Frank?” Leon said, curious.

“We have met.” He turned to Kay. “He’s here?”

“No. Ankara. I’m visiting Istanbul for a few days.”

“A beautiful woman alone in Istanbul,” he said, shaking his head, a stage gesture, trying to be courtly. “No Russian would allow it.”

“I’ve got a chaperone.” She nodded at Leon.

“Him? A chaperone?” Georg said.

“You don’t think I’m safe with him?” Kay said, looser now.

“Safe, yes. In the right hands, maybe not so much.”

“Oo la,” Lily said. “And who do you nominate? You?” She turned to Kay. “Of course he knows everything about Istanbul. But no reputation is safe with that one.” A tease and a compliment to Georg, overweight and aging.

“Maybe I should offer myself to the highest bidder. Like the girl in
Oklahoma!
”

Leon could tell from the blank expressions that no one had really caught the reference, but Lily smiled anyway.

“Then you must choose Melnikov. A true pasha. He brought caviar. Imagine, in Istanbul, where no one can get it. For love or money. A whole tin.” A sly glance at Leon. No one brought gifts to parties like this.

“For a gracious hostess.”

“You must have some before they eat it all up,” Lily said to Kay.

“And me,” Georg said, offering Kay his arm. “Let’s have caviar.”

“Always gallant, when there’s food,” Lily said, taking her other arm. “Come, I’ll protect you. Besides, I want to show you off. Such a prize, a new woman.”

Leon looked at the room as they left. There were, in fact, only a few women, most of them European. In the old days they would have been in the other part of the house, having sherbet and coffee, watching the party through latticed grilles.

“You’re working with Bishop now,” Melnikov said, not bothering with small talk.

“News travels fast,” Leon said, off guard.

“Maybe that’s where you heard my name.”

“Maybe.”

“Or from Tommy King. Another friend of yours.”

Leon looked at him for a second. “Everybody knows everybody in Istanbul,” he said, glancing toward Lily.

“An old comrade. We met from time to time. During the war.”

“Ah,” Leon said, noncommittal. Those drinks at the Pera, more information exchanged than Frank imagined.

“To survive the war, then this.” He shrugged. “Now of course you want to find the man who did it.”

“Well, that’s a police matter. Naturally we hope—”

“I want to find him too,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Georg has spoken to you about this.”

Leon looked at him carefully. “That was you? Offering the reward?”

“You worked for Tommy. A man for hire. Why not for me? Avenge your friend’s death. Perhaps you could use the money. In these difficult times.” He paused. “The man belongs to us.”

“And why would I turn him over to you? Assuming we found him.”

“Self-interest. The Americans want him. We want him more. So we’re willing to pay. Are they?”

“What makes you think—”

Melnikov waved this off. “You can put your flag away. A man like you.”

Leon felt a flash of heat on his face. “I don’t know where he is,” he said, keeping his voice even.

“But you will. Now that you’re inside. It’s a bet to make anyway. Whoever’s protecting him, it’s not a stranger. Someone who’s part of this business. You don’t know yet? Here’s an incentive for you, to find out. Enough money to take your wife back to America. It’s a reasonable offer.”

Leon stared at him. A hard face, lived-in, knowing eyes. Buying someone.

“Go to hell,” he said.

Melnikov said nothing for a minute, then looked away. “So. Then take a message. You know how to do that. Be a messenger.”

“What kind of message?”

“To whoever has him.”

“I don’t know—”

“It’s important,” Melnikov interrupted. “We are going to find our friend. And kill him.” He looked directly at Leon. “And his protector. If he would give him to us—a different situation. But if not, both are dead. Tell him that. We’ll kill both.”

Leon waited for a second, trying not to react. The chill of a death sentence, like a hand on your shoulder, the air still. Melnikov held his gaze, emotionless. How many had he already killed?

“Is that a paid message?”

Melnikov nodded. “If you like. And not as expensive for us.” He raised his eyebrows. “At first I thought it might be you. One of Tommy’s men. The question was, why? To bargain for Jianu? Get a better price? Then Bishop brings you in to help. Not a foolish man. So, not you. Now we only have to pay you for a message.”

“You won’t have to pay for anything.”

“Deliver it anyway,” Melnikov said, his voice thick. “To the one who helps. You might save a life.”

“From you? You’d kill him anyway. For the sport.”

Melnikov’s eyes clouded, as if he’d been offended, then darted over Leon’s shoulder. “Here’s Georg. Alone. He must have lost the bidding.”

Georg, champagne flute in hand, was plodding toward them, feet heavy, older.

“You enjoyed the caviar?” Melnikov said.

Georg put his fingers to his lips in a kiss.

“Then I’d better hurry before it’s gone,” Melnikov said.

“The guest eats his own present?” Leon said.

“I’m not so polite. A simple soldier. I was never taught these things.”

“Lily’s very grateful,” Georg said, evidently the point of the gift.

“An interesting conversation,” Melnikov said, nodding to Leon, a leave-taking.

“Yes? What about?” Georg said.

Melnikov ignored him, beginning to move away, then turning. “Mr. Bauer, if it is you—take the money.”

He started to walk again and Leon followed, his back to Georg.

“How about an answer? As a kind of down payment?”

Melnikov stopped. “And the question?”

“Why did your Romanian friend shoot Tommy? If Tommy was there to—”

“Yes,” Melnikov said, a movement to his lips, almost a smile. “How the Americans must want to know that.”

“Don’t you?”

“A speculation. Tommy found out.”

“What?”

“That his information is worthless. Something wasn’t right, so he became suspicious. He had a mind like that.”

“Tommy?”

Melnikov nodded. “A suspicious man.”

“Of you, maybe.”

“Me, certainly. That was his job. And now of Jianu. The minute Jianu sees this, Tommy’s dead. He’s a fantasist, Jianu, but good at protecting himself.”

“A fantasist. Of course, that’s exactly what you’d want us to think.”

“But you won’t. You’ll believe him. Whatever he says. A good thing for us, in fact. This has been discussed. Let the Americans have him—believe his lies.”

“But you want him back.”

“A question of discipline. In the end, more important. A man who betrays?” He shook his head. “He dies,” he said flatly. “And he will.”

“Still Stalingrad.”

Melnikov peered at him, not expecting this, but decided not to respond. “So, is that an answer?” he said, walking away.

“What was that about?” Georg said, apprehensive. “Such talk. What, Stalingrad?”

Leon turned to him. “He shot his own men. The ones the Nazis didn’t get.”

“For defeatism. Disloyalty to the Party.” An automatic response, then, avoiding Leon’s eyes, “He was a hero in the war.”

“So was Hitler. To millions. It depends where you sit. Christ, Georg. You brought him to Lily’s?”

“She asked me to bring him.”

“Someone like that?”

Georg shrugged. “She arranges meetings. That’s what her parties are. So people can meet.”

“And who wants to meet him?”

“I don’t know. You give your old friend too much credit. Would they tell me?” He looked up, a faint smile, a peace offering. “Please, such things. You know where I sit. I’m a Marxist.”

“He isn’t. He’s a thug. Or can’t you tell the difference anymore?”

Georg took a step back. “You’re upset. He said something?”

“Do you know what he is? You must, running errands for him.”

“Leon.”

“Part of the dialectic, is that it?”

“To accept contradictions? Yes.”

“He threatened to kill me. I’m your friend. How do you reconcile that one?”

“Threatened you?”

“He also seems to think I’ll do anything if he waves a dollar bill in my face. Where’d he get that idea? You? Did you tell him he could buy me?”

“Buy. Some information comes to you. A piece of luck. Why shouldn’t you profit from that?”

“My fucking four-leaf clover.” He looked over. “Buy, Georg. You made the same offer. It must be what you think.”

“He asked me to. Not such a nice character. As you say. So I did.” For a second neither said anything, a willed slowing down.

“Why do you still do it?” Leon said finally. “People like that.”

“He’s nothing,” Georg said. “But the war— I wanted to help.” He looked up. “Didn’t you?”

“Help who? That country in your head?”

Georg’s face went slack.

“It’s not Russia, the one up there,” Leon said. “It’s not real.”

“Maybe to me,” Georg said quietly.

“He is, though. And the people he’s killed. That’s what it is there now.”

Georg stared at his drink. “Not here,” he said, a finger to his temple. “You don’t know how it was. How much we were going to do. You know I knew Rosa? Luxemburg? The current of history, that’s what she said we had. We could sweep away—” He stopped. “Then they came, the Melnikovs. Maybe they were always there. I knew after Trotsky. But the idea, to keep that alive— So was it right? I don’t know. But it’s too late now. To find another one.” He paused, then finished his glass. “Don’t be offended. It’s not personal.”

“You were the first friend we had in Istanbul.”

Georg put his hand on Leon’s arm. “And I’m the only one who’s changed?”

Leon said nothing, suddenly aware again of the voices around them, the Turkish musicians playing in one of the alcoves.

“It was different before,” Georg said. “Everything was different. Now, what’s the same? Maybe Anna. Only she’s the same.”

Leon moved his arm, the name like some physical intrusion, separating them. The noise of the party seemed to get louder.

“You should take her home,” Georg said, his voice an echo of Melnikov’s, the same bait, what they’d agreed.

Leon stared at him, white hair and apple cheeks, caught now too, everyone different, except Anna.

“Where would I get the money?” he said, still staring, until Georg looked away, embarrassed.

He walked across the big room to the garden entrance, a low-railed seating area with divans and an arched ceiling glowing with mother-of-pearl. Two men smoking a water pipe looked up, waiting until he passed before they started talking again.

The garden was colder than he expected. He lit a cigarette, looking back at the bright, busy house. People passing in and out of the dining room, standing with meze plates, servants with trays of glasses, flutes of champagne, fruit juices for the observant. One of Lily’s parties. Where you could arrange an import license or plant a story in
Hürriyet
or hint at an arrangement outside official channels. They’d had a special excitement during the war, Germans across the room, drinking the same wine, British officers just in from Alexandria, Romanians who seemed to belong nowhere, buying and selling. He wondered who wanted to meet Melnikov, say something over a champagne glass that couldn’t be said in an office, but Melnikov had disappeared, swallowed up in the crowd.