Istanbul Express (17 page)

“Bursa kebab,” Turgay announced proudly. “A favorite of mine.”

Jake allowed his plate to be heaped high, tasted, pronounced it all delicious.

While they ate, a troupe of musicians wandered through the hall. To Jake's mind, Turkish music was the most thoroughly Oriental part of the culture. A half-dozen drums and tambourines kept up a complex beat while the remaining instruments joined in constant discord and the singing rose strident above it all. The overall effect was as exotic and flavorful as the food.

Over cups of treacly thick coffee, Turgay produced a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. “I have prepared the list as you ordered.”

“I do not,” Jake responded, “make it a habit to order around a foreign government—or even members of the opposition party.”

“You hold the purse strings,” Turgay reminded him. “That adds great power to any request.” He unfolded the sheets. “There are five companies which we could identify in the time you gave us.”

Jake peered over the list. “All are large enough to handle construction projects of this size?”

“All have already done so,” Turgay answered. “When will you have the bidding documents ready?”

“Maybe never,” Jake said, and decided the least he could do was explain the time pressure he faced. As he described the recent developments, he refolded the documents and tried to settle them into his jacket pocket. “Having a list of companies that could have been sent tenders will make good
ammunition, but I've still got to find something big enough to blow a breach in their defenses. And fast.”

Turgay nodded his understanding, pointed at what Jake held, asked, “What is that?”

Jake looked down and realized he had pulled out his New Testament to make room for the papers. “I like to carry a Bible with me.”

“Ah, a Christian.” Turgay smiled approval. “I have often wanted to argue the points of this religion.”

It hit him then, a sudden sense of the answer prepared and waiting. “I will not argue with anyone,” Jake replied quietly yet firmly. “Not over this.”

Turgay shrugged his disregard. “Discuss, then.”

“Not that, either.” Jake pressed the documents flatter, fitted his New Testament back out of sight.

The outright rejection confused the handsome young man. “This is a most curious matter, Mr. Burnes. If it is so important that you carry this book with you always, why will you not discuss religion with me?”

“Because it is not just a religion to me,” Jake replied. “It is my
faith
. It is the bedrock of my life. Faith is not something that can be shared through intellectual debate. You can't hold it out at arm's length and analyze it and come away understanding anything.”

“Most remarkable,” Turgay murmured.

“If you want to hear the message of salvation, I would be happy to share my experience. If you wish to speak of the ache of an empty heart, I would be privileged to listen and share with you what faith has done in my own life. If you would like to pray with me, I would be honored to bow my head with yours.”

Turgay drummed his fingers on the table, clearly ill at ease with the direction the discussion had taken. “Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand.”

“Fine with me.” Jake settled back, content. He had made
the offer, planted the seed. It was up to the Lord now to perform His miracle.

Chapter Twelve

“Are you a believer as well, my dear?” Phyllis directed the question into her rearview mirror without slowing a fraction.

“I have witnessed far too many miracles,” Jasmyn replied faintly, her face blanched, her eyes pinned to the vista sweeping by outside her window, “not to believe in God.”

“So very glad to hear it,” Phyllis said gaily. “So very glad.”

The road, such as it was, wound its way higher and higher up a cliffside flanking the Bosphorus. Sally tried as hard as she could not to look to their left. Blue sky swooped down a terrifying distance to sparkling blue waters below. Occasionally the road leveled and curved away from the sea, entering one hard-scrabble village after another. Phyllis did not slow a fraction from her headlong rush, but scattered chickens and goats and donkey carts and villagers with true British aplomb.

“Faith is a marvelous addition to one's life,” Phyllis said, utterly blind to the effect her driving was having on her two passengers. “I simply cannot imagine what I would have done after George's untimely demise had I not had my faith to shelter me.”

The car was a truly enormous Citroen, the long snout a perfect wedge for Phyllis's form of driving, which consisted primarily of setting the course and allowing everyone else to simply get out of her way. In place of turn signals, two great flaps extended alongside the doors. When Phyllis wished to turn, she pushed one of two levers on her sculpted chrome dash, and the metal flag flapped out and down with a bong from the signal bell. The problem was, Phyllis neglected to bother with the flags until she was already spinning her wheel. And she used her rearview mirror only for talking with the passenger in the backseat. Their journey was therefore punctuated by horns and screeching brakes and shouts fading into the distance. Sally had long since given up turning around to
survey the chaos. All she could see in their wake was a great, billowing dust cloud.

Phyllis came within inches of jamming a donkey cart over the cliff, spun the wheel, and blithely slipped into the path of an oncoming truck, then just as swiftly slid back in front of the cart. As the braying donkey, shouting driver, and honking truck faded into the distance, Phyllis declared proudly, “Almost there, ladies. You can see the village on that next crest up ahead.”

“Praise be to the Lord above,” Jasmyn said faintly from the backseat.

“Now, then.” Spurred by the sight of their destination, Phyllis pressed down upon the accelerator, and the great motor beneath the long black hood roared in delight. Sally slid another notch down in the overpadded seat as Phyllis continued briskly, “You must recall that we are here as tourists, simply visiting a quaint little fishing village.”

Sally closed her eyes as the far wheels skidded around a curve, sending a spray of rocks cascading down to distant waters. “You're sure this speed is necessary?”

“Why of course, my dear,” Phyllis replied, misunderstanding her totally. “You yourself have said that the letter dismissing your husband will arrive sometime tomorrow.”

“She meant,” Jasmyn tried feebly, “must we drive so fast?”

“Always best to outrun trouble, I say.” Phyllis spun the wheel with the ease of one raised on hairpin turns. “You will both be happy to know I have never had an accident.”

“And never will have but one,” Sally replied, but her words were lost in yet another truck's blaring horn.

“We must follow up any lead we have,” Phyllis said, returning to the matter at hand. “The spice trader's story was the third bit of evidence pointing toward Kumdare. Where there's smoke there's fire, I say, especially when the Russians are fanning the flames.”

The spice trader bought from several local markets in the region around Kumdare, and twice he had heard of foreigners
buying provisions. Pale-skin foreigners who spoke smatterings of Turkish with a distinctly Russian accent, and who never returned to the same market twice. Their presence was remarkable enough to cause talk.

Phyllis rounded the final bend, swooped down and into the unsuspecting village, halted in a paved courtyard, and cut the engine. Then she turned and beamed at her two passengers. “Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?”

The cicadas hummed a constant refrain to the heat and the sun. Their buzz seemed to make the air even hotter. The road they walked was little more than a narrow gravel path between crumbling stone walls, with the sun and twin minarets for direction markers.

“This village was a way station for travelers two thousand years ago,” Phyllis told them as they walked. “Traders would harness their pack animals in a circle around their goods, then sleep outside them in double rows for security.”

Old men sat and stared at their passage, fingering amber worry beads. Children scampered and giggled and pointed at the oddity of foreign women in their midst. The village girls were quick and as pretty as tiny porcelain dolls, dressed in brightly colored dresses and miniature headkerchiefs.

They entered the central square, where a local market attracted a crowd of chattering, haggling locals. Squinting against the fierce sun, Sally ignored the glances tossed their way and inspected her surroundings. The village had been constructed to endure the heat in comfort. Verandas were broad and built around great sheltering trees, the multitude of branches offering far more protection than mere roofs. Outer walls more than three feet thick offered substantial barriers to the heat. Restaurants and teahouses were open affairs, tables spread out on the verandas, beckoning diners into their shadowy cool depths.

Sally turned to Jasmyn and observed, “You look a little queasy.”

“So do you.” She tried for a smile. “I do not look forward to the trip back.”

“Me, neither,” Sally agreed. “Now that we're here, I wonder what we're supposed to do.”

“Whatever it is,” Jasmyn said, “it is bound to attract attention. I feel eyes upon us everywhere.”

“Yoo-hoo, ladies,” Phyllis called and waved. “Over here, if you please.”

Sally started to complain that her feet were already begging loudly for a rest and the sun was sweltering, but Phyllis beckoned impatiently. She sighed and gave Jasmyn a minute shrug. Together they walked over to where a man was poking a metal rod down the mouth of a broad wooden cylinder. Phyllis smiled at her approach and announced, “I have just what you need.”

“What I need,” Sally said, “is a nice, cool bath.”

“And some shade,” Jasmyn added.

“I believe you might like this even better.” Phyllis turned to the man, who despite the heat wore a voluminous shirt, a vest sewn with bits of reflecting glass, and a tall fez. She said to them, “Step closer, if you will.”

“What for?” But Sally did as she was told and instantly was consumed by a wave of coolness. She gaped, bringing a delighted laugh from both Phyllis and the throng of children who now surrounded them. The man grinned but did not stop with his energetic stirring. Sally leaned over the cylinder to gaze down the narrow opening and saw a white, doughy ball at the base. She felt the coolness even more strongly. Sally stepped aside so that Jasmyn could take a look and demanded, “What on earth?”

“You will see.” Phyllis chattered to the man, who gave a mock half-bow, reached for a small metal plate, raised his long rod, and scraped off some of the dough. Instantly the
surrounding children were clamoring for attention, their faces and voices a mixture of pleading and laughter.

Phyllis plucked a spoon from a glass on the ledge, then handed the serving to Sally. “Taste.”

Gingerly she touched a tiny portion to her tongue and exclaimed, “Ice cream!”

The children squealed with delight and absolutely butchered the words in an attempt to imitate Sally's surprise. Phyllis handed Jasmyn a plate, accepted her own portion, and said, “This gentleman travels from village to village all summer long. You can hear the bells on his little truck a mile or so off. Nowadays this cylinder is packed with dry ice, but when my children were young he came in a cart with straw packed around great bales of ice. The day he visited our area was something they looked forward to all year long.”

Sally took another tiny scoop and watched as Phyllis gave the man a handful of coins and began doling out ice cream to all the surrounding children. Their excitement was so great they could scarcely stand still long enough to accept the little metal platters. Phyllis calmed them with a gentle tone, her face suddenly unlined, her eyes as bright as the children's. When the last child had been fed and the last whimpering plea stilled, Sally asked, “You mentioned having children, but I thought you told me that you only have one daughter.”

“That's right, dear.” She smiled in reply to the chorus of delighted giggles. “My son was killed in the war. That was the George I referred to earlier, when I said faith had proven so important to me. My husband, God rest his soul, had endured two years of a lingering illness before he was taken, and the dear man was ready to go. George was another matter entirely.” Her tone was bright, her voice matter of fact, but the pain formed two deep holes at the center of her gaze. “George was a pilot. We lost him in the Battle of Britain.”

“I'm so very sorry,” Jasmyn said for them both.

“Thank you. You are both such dears.” She looked back down to the eager little faces, gained strength from their joy.
The gaze tightened, focused. “George gave his life so that we might enjoy this wonderful gift of freedom. I feel it is my duty as his mother to continue where he left off. Which brings us to the matter of our journey today.”