Istanbul Passage (7 page)

“My bag,” John said, nodding to a duffel bag in the boat. “I have a bag.”

For a second Mihai didn’t move, still staring, until John looked back at him, a question mark. “I’ll get it,” Mihai said finally, breaking his own trance. “The car. Over there. Hurry.”

“It’s all right?” John said to Leon, suddenly anxious, a what’s-wrong expression.

Leon made a shooing motion. “Fine. Get in the car.”

“And my money? What about my money?”

Leon took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it down. The fisherman started to count the bills.

“It’s all there. Throw us the bag and get out of here.” Behind him, he heard the car door slam. “Before anyone sees.”

“Ha. Before anyone sees
you
.”

“Just throw up the goddam bag,” Mihai said, edgy, putting one foot on the boat, reaching out.

“First I count,” the fisherman said. “Who are you anyway? Nobody said two. One man.”

“Count it, then,” Leon said, impatient now, watching him thumb through the notes. Unshaven, face surly.

“Nothing extra for the extra day?”

Leon could feel Mihai tense up next to him, coiled. “Not here,” he said quickly, improvising. “After you’re back. And we know no one’s seen you.” Something Tommy could easily arrange. Pocket change.

“The bag,” Mihai said, his voice low, almost threatening, so that
the fisherman picked it up without question, heaving it across the gap. Mihai swung it onto his shoulder.

“No lights till you’re past the landing,” Leon said, reminded by a sweep of headlights from the road.

Mihai tossed back the rope.

“Did he say anything? You had two days.”

The fisherman shook his head. “No Turkish. We play dominoes.”

“The money will be there when you get back,” Leon said. “The extra.”

The fisherman smiled, an uneven row of teeth with gaps.
“Inshallah,”
he said, a hand on his chest. He went over to the controls, pushing the handle forward. The boat choked, then started moving, the engine grinding, swinging out again toward the dark, the sputtering still audible even after it was out of sight.

“They’re lucky they made it. In that,” Mihai said.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Mihai turned to him. “You know what you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?”

A crunch of tires, a car door slamming. Mihai turned to it, then suddenly swiveled, the air near him exploding, his body jerking back, as if he’d been punched. He let out a sharp cry, hit somewhere. Leon saw the duffel bag falling, then Mihai pitching forward, rocking.

“Get down!” A hoarse grunt as he dropped onto the duffel, scraping the pavement to get behind it.

Another shot, hitting the concrete near the edge of the bag, Mihai rolling away from it. Leon ducked, then threw himself down, flattening his body on the concrete. Out of the light but still exposed, his mind a minute behind what was happening, trying to catch up. What soldiers must feel, everything around them moving too fast. Getting killed. Afraid they’d pee.

He lifted his head a little, looking across the quay. The shots had
been so loud that everyone must have heard. He expected people rushing out of the café. But nobody appeared, even the café lights now hidden behind the dark bulk of the car where the shots had come from.

“Mihai,” he said, a hiss.

“Keep down.” He was reaching into his pocket, pulling out a gun, crouching farther behind the duffel for cover. “Roll away!” Mihai said, still hoarse. “Keep moving.”

But the next bullet went to the duffel again, a locator shot for Mihai, who now aimed at the point in the dark where it had been fired. Leon watched him steady the gun. Nothing but dim reflected light on the road. But he found the spot. Another explosion, louder than the others, almost in his ear, and then a grunt from the other car, a surprised scream, a shadow forming, trying to stand then falling down again. For a second, silence, so quiet he could hear the boats creak against their ropes.

“Mihai?” he whispered, crawling over on his belly, still trying to keep his head down.

“I hit him.”

Now close enough to see Mihai’s hand, covered in blood. “Jesus.”

“We have to get to the car. We don’t know how many—”

Mihai pushed himself up, knees, then a low crouch, moving, his eyes fixed on the other car. Leon scrambled up, following, then saw the shadow take shape, on its knees, hand extended.

“Watch out!” he shouted, flattening himself again.

“My hand. It’s stiff,” Mihai said, sliding the gun to Leon. “Get him.”

For a second, less, Leon stared at the gun, reaching for it as if it might snap at him, a gray lizard flecked with blood, alive.

“Quick!”

Then, a pure reflex, he was aiming the gun, firing, hearing another grunt, this time the crack of bone as a head hit the pavement. Mihai was up and running, bent over, dragging the duffel.

“Get in the car,” Leon said, taking the bag from him, risking a half-standing sprint, an easy target now. But moving, racing.

He slammed back against the car when he reached it, hearing his own breath, then yanked the door handle to get in. He reached across the seat to open the other door for Mihai, who slid in, a writhing movement, still low.

“Here,” he said, handing over the keys.

Leon jammed them into the ignition, turning them at the same time.

“Keep down.”

Leon put the car in gear and felt it jump beneath him, wheels squealing as he pressed the accelerator, shooting out of the parking area and left onto the road, past the café. No one outside. Hadn’t anybody heard? Gunshots were startling, always recognizable, not cars backfiring. Or maybe they were huddled inside, cowering behind windows. Or maybe it had all never happened, a fever dream. But there was Mihai’s hand, bleeding. And his own, shaking, his whole body trembling, adrenaline still surging, shocked. Someone shooting at him.

“They said there wouldn’t be any trouble,” John said from the backseat, his voice apprehensive.

Leon looked in the rearview mirror, somehow surprised that he was there, an afterthought.

“You’re safe,” Mihai said.

“Did you see them?” Leon said over his shoulder. “How many?”

John shook his head. “They thought you were me,” he said to Mihai. “You had the bag.”

Leon looked in the mirror again, taking him in for the first time. Short gray hair, receding at the temples so that he seemed almost bald, a thin face pulled tight over high cheekbones, sharp eyes peering back at him in the mirror.

“How’s your hand?” he said to Mihai.

“I can move it.”

“There’s a shirt in the bag,” John said. “You can wrap it in that. Stop the bleeding.”

“I don’t need your shirt,” Mihai said to the mirror, pulling a handkerchief out of his back pocket.

“Anyone behind?” Leon said.

“There will be. Would they send just one?”

“They?”

“Whoever they are, who’d want to put a bullet in your head,” Mihai said to the mirror. “Who is that, do you think?”

John looked back, saying nothing.

“You brought a gun,” Leon said, glancing down at the seat.

“In case.”

“In case. There was no reason to think—” Leon said, his voice still ragged, back at the quay.

“There’s always a reason,” Mihai said evenly. He looked up at the mirror. “Don’t you think so?”

“Where are we going?” John said, not answering him.

“A safe place,” Leon said. “Don’t worry.”

“Not the consulate?”

“How?” Mihai said. “In a diplomatic pouch? So the Turks don’t see?”

Leon glanced over at him, surprised at his tone, still shooting back. “Don’t worry,” he said again to the mirror. He made a sharp right turn, into the village.

“What are you doing?” Mihai said.

“You can’t lose anyone on the coast road. We’ll take the back way,” Leon said.

“What back way?”

“Just watch behind,” Leon said, gesturing to the rear window.

They shot up the steep grade toward Nispetiye, Leon leaning forward to concentrate on the twisting road, dark with pines.

“Anyone?”

“No.”

“It’s hard to follow here.” Suburbs with shady local roads circling the hills, easy to get lost in even during the day.

“So you’re called John?” Mihai said, making conversation, holding the bloody hand. “So many Johns. Ivan. Johann. Ion in Romania.”

John looked into the mirror. “Alexei,” he said. “John was for the fisherman.”

Mihai continued to look back for a second, then turned to Leon. “Who knew about the pickup?”

“Here? Nobody. That’s why they used me. Someone outside.”

“So then, your end,” Mihai said to Alexei, turning in his seat to face him. “Someone at your end.”

Alexei just stared back at him.

“Any ideas?”

“No.”

“Of course, there’s always the fisherman. If someone pays more. But who? Who wants to kill you?”

Alexei looked at him, deliberate, moving a chess piece into place. “Everybody,” he said. “Why do you think I’m coming to you? Do you have a cigarette?”

Leon reached into his pocket and handed back a pack.

“So thank you for that,” Alexei said, lighting one. “Saving my life.”

Mihai nodded. “That’s right, isn’t it? I did. And the bag saved mine. How things work.”

“What if he isn’t dead?” Leon said, taking a left at the intersection down toward Yildiz.

“Who? Our friend? Then he’s as good as dead. He can’t go to a hospital. What would he say?”

Leon looked over, his stomach suddenly light. Someone was dead, had to be. And he hadn’t felt anything, just the blind panic of firing back, saving himself. It must be different for snipers, taking
aim, knowing you’re about to kill. Detached, not shaking later, gripping the wheel tighter, head filled with it.

“It was supposed to be a simple pickup,” he said.

They drove for a while in silence, then skirted the dark border of Yildiz Park where Sultan Abdul Hamid had walled himself away, frightened of shadows. Leon glanced at the rearview mirror. Nobody behind.

“You know the pharmacy in Taksim? The late-night one? I should get some iodine for this.”

Leon spotted the green pharmacy sign and double-parked in front of a
borek
stall, looking both ways as he stepped into the street. Maybe he would always do this now, listening for bullets. Inside he got the iodine and bandages and then, an afterthought, some aspirin so it would look like a general supplies run. When he got back to the car, he had a sense that something had happened, a change in the air, but neither Mihai nor Alexei said anything. Maybe the change was in him, a new churning uneasiness, as suspicious now as Abdul Hamid.

“Shit!” Mihai gasped as he applied the iodine.

Leon was heading downhill again toward Galata Bridge. “Can you drive home? With that?” he said, indicating the bandage.

“I’ll be all right. Just worry about him.” A hard look, Mihai somehow blaming Leon.

They crossed the Horn and went up into the old city, past the tourist monuments, then Beyazit. Laleli Caddesi turned downhill toward Yenikapi station in a stretch of small hotels and cheap textile dealers.

“We’ll get out here,” Leon said, stopping. “So they don’t see the car.”

“Who?”

Leon pointed to a light three doors down. “Hotel.”

“It’s safe?” Alexei said, looking out, suddenly vulnerable.

“Let’s hope so.” Leon turned to Mihai. “You sure you’ll be all right?”

Another look, his eyes meeting Leon’s, then letting it go, pushing
the bag back to Alexei. “Here, keep it close. It might come in handy again.” He slid over to the driver’s seat, waiting for them to leave, then handed Leon the gun. “Better have this. Watch your back.”

Leon touched it, feeling it alive again, then nodded.

“Keep the car off the street. In case anybody spotted it.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

Mihai shrugged. “Don’t be sorry. Just get him out of Istanbul.”

“You were never there. You can trust me on that.”

“And him?”

They moved to the curb, watching the car pull away. Down the hill three men appeared out of the shadows, probably on their way to a
mihanye
. The night belonged to men here, roaming the streets in bored groups, the women safely shuttered away. Except for the ones loitering near the station, hoping for a few hours in one of the hotels. Salesmen from Izmir, with suitcases of samples. Workers up from the country to see about a job. A neighborhood used to new faces, passing through.

Leon took out a folded paper and handed it to Alexei. “In case they ask. They might not.”

“What?”

“Your
tezkere
. Internal passport. Foreigners have to carry them.”

“Foreigners. What am I?”

“Bulgar. I didn’t know what you could pass for. If you knew Turkish.”

“No.” He glanced at the passport. “It’s real?”

Leon nodded. “A refugee I knew. He moved on.”

“Your friend,” Alexei said, motioning to where the car had been. “He’s Romanian.”

“Was. Why?”

“He spoke to me. In the car. To see if I knew Romanian.”

“Why Romanian?”

“It’s like that with us. Romanians recognize each other. Something
in the voice, maybe.” He looked in the passport. “Now Bulgar. Jakab?”

“A Bulgar Jew. That’s why you left.”

“A Jew,” he said to himself, trying it on, like a hat.

But the night clerk didn’t ask for a
tezkere
. A pale man with a beak nose and small eyes who might have been Bulgar himself, he took the money and handed Leon a key attached to a weight with a tassel. When Leon asked for glasses, he scowled but got up and went to the room behind and brought out two raki glasses, muttering in Turkish, a weary put-upon monotone.

“What did he say?” Alexei asked on the stairs.

“Not to make too much noise,” Leon said, holding up the glasses.

The hall light was on a timed switch, just long enough to get the key in the door before it snapped off again. The room was small, stained Liberty wallpaper and a curtain on a rod for a closet, not intended for long stays. A Turkish toilet and a shower, no tub. Alexei looked around.