Istanbul Express (8 page)

Jake took in the words, the pallid features, the waxy long-fingered hands, the unkempt beard, the lost gaze. “And still you call this your country.”

“Some are now leaving, those with relatives elsewhere, especially in America. Others are speaking of new beginnings in Israel. But my family has lived in Istanbul for almost five hundred years. We have lived in our home for seven generations. I, my father, his father before him, and his before that, all were married in the same synagogue.” Dark eyes turned with resigned sorrow to Jake. “Tell me, Mr. Burnes, if we were to leave, who would remain to keep our heritage alive?”

“I understand,” Jake said. He planted his hands on his knees, asked, “Can you type?”

“Some.” The man's gaze was questioning. “Why?”

Jake had heard enough. The emotion drawn from Daniel Levy's responses was too raw for him to do more than stand, offer his hand, and ask, “Can you start tomorrow?”

Chapter Six

“You don't waste time, do you?”

Jake slid into the seat opposite Barry Edders' cluttered desk. “I'm a little short of extra minutes.”

“Yeah I suppose that's so.” Even first thing in the morning, the political officer's cheery manner was solidly in place. “So you want me to talk with the CG, let him know you'd like to enlist our marines to your little effort.”

“Just borrow them from time to time, is all.”

“Well, I don't have any problem with that. Don't guess the CG will, either.” He shuffled through a haphazard pile of papers, came up with a relatively clean sheet, scribbled on one edge. “Anything else?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Jake had spent much of the previous night planning this discussion. Keeping their talks to a minimum meant getting as much from each one as possible.

“Figured there would be.” Barry sighed contentedly as he propped his shoes upon the desk's corner. He sipped his coffee, waved the mug in Jake's general direction. “Sure I can't offer you some?”

“I'm fine, thanks. I need—”

“You'll learn soon enough never to pass up a chance for a decent cup,” Barry said, sliding down a bit further in the chair, getting himself truly comfortable. “The local stuff tastes like wet sand.”

“I've had Arabic coffee before.” Jake cocked his head to one side. “Do you ever let anything bother you?”

“Used to.” Another sip, taking it slow, breathing in the steam, sighing at the flavor. Savoring the moment. “You see any action, Jake?”

“You mean, in the war? Some.”

“Me, too. Philippines, Okinawa, Tinian. Political science professor one day, captain of infantry the next.” He took
another contented sip, glancing back over his shoulder at the sunlight that streamed in through his floor-to-ceiling windows, said mildly, “There couldn't have been, oh, more than a couple dozen times when I scraped through by the skin of my teeth.”

“I know the feeling,” Jake said quietly. “All too well.”

“Way I see it,” Barry went on, turning back to the room, “every day's a gift. My job is to enjoy it as much as I can. I love my work, love being overseas, love serving my country. I just can't let any of the memories or any of the current pressures get between me and appreciating the gift of life.” Another thoughtful sip. “Or between me and my God.”

“Faith has helped me a lot,” Jake said carefully. “But I'll never get to where you are. Not in a thousand years.”

“Yeah, I thought maybe you and your wife were believers.” He snatched up another sheet of paper, scribbled busily, then passed it over, all without shifting either shoes or cup. “Address of the church where a lot of the expatriate community worships. Good place. You'd be most welcome.”

“Thanks,” Jake said, and suddenly found it necessary to duck his head and hide how much the simple gesture meant to him just then.

“We're cut from two different stalks, you and I,” Barry went on. “My way of dealing with the world suits who I am. Same with you.”

“It doesn't mean,” Jake said, lifting his gaze, “that I couldn't learn from you. A lot.”

Barry eyed him thoughtfully over the rim of his mug, then said, “I hope the situation changes, Jake, and gives us the chance to become friends.”

“Maybe we already are,” Jake replied.

“Yeah, maybe you're right at that.” The brisk cheerfulness returned. “So what else can I do for you this morning?”

“I need all the accounts and correspondence dealing with the first two outlays of funds.”

“That ought to stick a feather up old Fernwhistle's nose.”
Barry grinned as he scribbled a note. “Consider it done. Anything else?”

“A car and driver. Available day and night, short notice, maybe no notice at all. Somebody competent, safe, and able to keep his trap shut.”

“Competent and safe are words that don't exist on Turkish roads. Confidential isn't a problem, though. These guys are so grateful for a job they wouldn't dream of yapping.” Another scribble. “Car will be placed at your disposal day and night, driver available days only unless you give prior notice. See Sergeant Adams for how the roster works. What else?”

“Keep Ahmet off my back.”

Barry grinned. “Heard about your little escapade with the hiring process. Pretty neat the way you did the end run on him.”

“Why do you put up with him?”

“I don't, personally. As to the others,” Barry shrugged. “You got to remember, most of the Americans here have had years experience back in Washington learning how not to make waves. Most of them are so grateful for the chance to serve overseas they'd eat a yard of wet laundry to keep the job.”

“That guy is a menace.”

“Yeah, well, I could push my weight around, but if I do, I'd tip our hand. So I'm going to have to let you handle this one on your own.”

“Thanks a million.”

“Hey, what are pals for, right?” An easy grin across the desk, then, “Anything else?”

“Just one point. I'd like to meet with your assistant.”

“You want to spend time with Mrs. Ecevit?” For once, Barry registered genuine surprise. “Why?”

“You're not supposed to be asking me that,” Jake said. “You were the one who hired her.”

“Oh, don't get me wrong. She's fantastic. But she's also fairly high up the hard-to-handle scale. My two staffers call
her Mrs. Prickly Pear. Personally, I love her mind, but not her attitude.” He waited, granting Jake a chance to opt out. When he did not, Barry continued to press the point home. “Even I prefer to keep her at arm's length and receive everything she has to say in writing.”

But Jake had already made up his mind. “I'll take my chances, if it's all right with you.”

“Be my guest. She's off doing some work for me just now, but she should be back after lunch.” A grand smile creased his features as he turned away. “Just don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Are you sure this is it?”

Sally glanced from the note in her hand to the brass plaque set upon the tall entrance gate. “Rosewood Bungalow. See for yourself.”

Jasmyn peered doubtfully at the great stone edifice rising beyond the formal gardens. “This is a bungalow?”

“Somebody's idea of a joke, more likely.” Sally started forward. “If it is, she's in for a nasty surprise. My well of good humor is just about all run dry.”

The previous day had been spent inspecting the apartments assigned the two couples. Jasmyn had almost wept at the sight of hers; when it came to Sally's turn, she could not help but laugh.

Pierre and Jasmyn had been assigned a two-room apartment in a rundown central-city tenement. The French consulate had dumped so much furniture and fittings inside that there was scarcely room for one person to walk about, much less for two people to start a life together. The apartment was on the second floor above a busy street; with the continual din below, they had to shout to hear each other. The single small balcony overlooked a central courtyard of cracked cement and weeds and a dirt-filled fountain. There was no sunlight or sky at all, the view totally blocked by clotheslines strung from higher balconies. Along with the bedlam of crying babies and screaming children and screeching mothers came the
continual sound of dripping water. The air stank of starch and cheap detergent.

Sally's apartment was equally ridiculous, but on the opposite end of the scale. The pre-war building occupied an entire city block. She had opened the door to discover a residence spanning the entire floor. The paltry bits of furniture supplied by the consulate had only amplified the cavernous depths. Their exploration had taken on the air of a trek, calling out to each other to find their way back together, their footsteps echoing loudly from wooden floors and distant ceilings. There were six bathrooms and nine fireplaces. Nine. The kitchen was larger than Jasmyn's entire apartment.

Without further ado, they had commandeered two baffled drivers and cars from the French consulate and spent the remainder of the day shifting every stick of furniture from Jasmyn's apartment to Sally's. That evening they had pumped each other up, ready to do battle with both men for the right to live together. To their astonishment, neither had offered any argument whatsoever. Jake had seemed relieved. Pierre had said little, but had given the impression that they would probably not be around long enough to need to worry over accommodations. His entire second day had been spent in further explosive encounters.

Then the note had arrived with Sally's breakfast tray.

Sally was growing restless to move out of the hotel and into something more settled. She had no complaints about the hotel itself, other than the feeling that eyes followed her everywhere and privacy had become a relative term. Even room service was losing its appeal. Sally had slipped open the note, read the brief invitation to morning coffee, then gone to fetch Jasmyn.

Together they walked up the long winding drive, past ancient rosebushes trained to climb over a variety of surfaces. Rose-covered fountains sprayed musical water. Heavy stone walls were almost lost beneath their burden of blooming
vines. Ancient trees and even older Roman columns were surrounded by trellises, upon which roses had been trained to grow and bloom in profusion.

“Oh, how simply marvelous. You must be Mrs. Burnes.”

Sally stopped, searched, could not locate the source of the voice. “That's right.”

“And right spot on time.” A elderly face lifted above a rose-clad embankment and beamed at them. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a smile as brilliant as the morning sun. “No mean feat, in these uncertain realms.”

“Mrs. Hollamby?”

“Call me Phyllis, won't you, my dear? It's so much smaller a mouthful.” She rose to her feet with the help of a sturdy cane, stripped off her gardening gloves, tottered over. “And you must be Mrs. Servais.”

“Call me Jasmyn, please.”

“Such a lovely name, it would be a pleasure.” Bright eyes peered from a friendly face. “And the name matches the lady, I must say. Two enchanting guests for coffee, how splendid.” She brushed at the dirt staining her simple cotton shift. “Just look at this, would you? Such a mess. I do so apologize, but it is so very difficult to keep track of time when I am out in my garden. You must think me terribly rude.”

“I've always felt that was one of the nice things about gardening,” Sally replied. “Having a perfect excuse to get good and messy.”

“What a charming thought.” She peered at Sally a moment longer, then nodded as though having reached a decision. “I have ordered coffee to be served in the garden. It's so pleasant this time of day.”

The table was sheltered by a rose-covered trellis and layered in starched linen. It supported a silver coffee service and settings for three. Jasmyn exclaimed, “This is beautiful.”

“Thank you, my dear. Yes, mornings are positively delightful out here. By midafternoon, however, I fear the atmosphere can be a bit overpowering. Roses seem to give out more scent
with heat, or perhaps it is that so many summer days here are windless.” She settled herself like an aging dowager and said to Sally, “Perhaps you would be kind enough to pour.”

“I'd be happy to.” As she steadied the heavy pot, she said, “Mrs. Fothering told us it was important that we try to meet with you.”

“Yes, she has been kind enough to inform me of your little encounter.” Sky-blue eyes twinkled merrily. “And of your meeting with our little friends the governess and her Swiss companion.”

Sally tried to match the woman's light tone, though it cost her. “She said we were in grave danger.”

Phyllis gave a gay peal of laughter, and the years positively melted away. “I would not pay overmuch attention to such blatherings, if I were you, my dear.”

Sally felt a rush of relief so strong it left her weak. “But they were so, well, convincing.”

“Deadly serious,” Jasmyn added.

“Well, they would be, wouldn't they? I mean, that is why our Mrs. Fothering did not inform them of her own purpose on the journey, which was to see if they were worthy of joining our little band. Nor have they been told what role I myself play.” She took a delicate sip, went on, “You see, my dear, there are those among us who feel they can give greater merit to their deeds by filling their little worlds with unnecessary drama.”

Sally sank back in her seat and glanced at an equally restored Jasmyn. “Then Jake and Pierre aren't in danger after all.”

“Why, of course they are, my dear.” Phyllis Hollamby smiled brightly. “They are gathering intelligence in Turkey. There could scarcely be a more perilous occupation in all the world.”

“But you said—”

Mrs. Hollamby reached over and patted Sally's hand. “I simply said that these women and their melodrama were out
of place. Such ladies like to fill their lives with commotion. That is their choice. But to instill unnecessary ferment in the heart of a newcomer is, well, excuse me for saying it, but it really is simply balderdash.” She looked from one to the other and aligned her features before saying sternly, “Now, you really cannot allow yourselves to take this so seriously. All the world is full of peril. Both your husbands have lived to wear their well-earned decorations because they are experts at the art of survival. If you wish to assist them with this next challenge, you must begin by being alert and calm and steady.”