Istanbul Express (16 page)

“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 interest 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?”

“Smile, my dear, and look interested in the displays,” Phyllis said, her voice overly bright. “He says there are eyes upon us.”

“Jana said the same thing,” Jasmyn said.

“Don't look so worried, dear. We are just a trio of foreigners enjoying a day of sightseeing and shopping.” Phyllis nodded approval as Jasmyn released a blithe little laugh. “Excellent. In anticipation of this, and from what we learned yesterday, I took my car across on the first ferry this morning. I also took the liberty of packing a lunch for us.”

She smiled and pointed toward a display that none of them saw. “This way I hope we shall be off and away while our footsore followers are still searching for a vehicle.”

“You are truly amazing,” Sally said quietly.

“Thank you, my dear. Now, you must hurry back to the hotel and leave a note for your husbands. Say simply that we have gone for a drive down the coast.”

Sally resisted the urge to search the surrounding crowds. “Where are we going?”

“It is time,” Phyllis replied, “for us to see what lies within this village called Kumdare.”

The Flower Market was a vast domed building that resembled the inside of a palace, all ornate porticoes and grand mirrors and chandeliers and windows taller than Jake. The
building stood upon a steep-sided hill looking down over the glistening waters of the Golden Horn. Beyond its waters rose the thrilling prospect of the old city and all its mysteries.

A chamber opening to one side had been turned into an eating hall. There, fragrances of well-spiced food mingled with those of the flowers to create an intoxicating bouquet.

Jake walked over to where Turgay Ecevit was seated and shook the proffered hand. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Do not bother to apologize, Mr. Burnes. Diplomats are always expected to be delayed. It adds importance to their posts, being able to claim some grave diplomatic crisis.”

Jake seated himself and replied, “In this case, it's the truth.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” He showed jolly disbelief. “I have taken the liberty of ordering a small meal for us. I hope that is acceptable.”

“Great. I missed breakfast and I'm starved.” The waiter appeared, clad in a ballooning white shirt and a multicolored vest. He set down plate after miniature plate until their table was crowded with a dozen small dishes.

“Mezze,” Turgay explained. “It means a thousand dishes.”

There were two different kinds of lamb, on skewers and grilled with peppers and pine nuts. There was salad of diced fennel and basil, beans both cold and hot and all heavily spiced, yogurt mixed with a variety of ingredients, and triangular pastries filled with cheese or spinach or meat. Fish and shrimp and shellfish made up the remaining portions, all swimming in spiced garlic oil. Jake surveyed the feast. “A small meal?”

“Wait, there is more,” Turgay said, and suddenly the air grew pungent with woodsmoke and roasting lamb. A chef and his assistant rolled over a great wooden trolley with a revolving vertical spit. The lamb was layered thick as a man's reach, and the charcoal banked in an upright grill. The spit was turned slowly, the outer blackened layer stripped off with a knife longer than Jake's arm, then caught in a frying pan with a wedge cut out so that it fit up snug to the spit. Jake
watched as the meat was set upon an oval platter and covered in a layer of spicy tomato sauce, then with another layer of meat, a layer of yogurt, and a final layer of meat, and the entire dish topped with diced onions and fragrant herbs. The mustachioed chef set down the plate with a flourish, then added two platter-sized loaves of fresh unleavened bread.