Istanbul Passage (21 page)

“For her,” Leon said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Tommy using Anna too. “And if the Turks—”

“We would have protected you,” Frank said. “What the hell, you were doing it for humanitarian reasons.”

“Whether I knew it or not.” He stared at the folders. “So that’s all it ever was? What I did?”

“No,” Frank said, looking at him. “Not all. But you were perfect for this, what with your wife—”

“He thought of everything,” Leon said, brooding. “All this, just to cover Tommy’s ass.”

“Well, Steinhart’s. The embassy couldn’t go near this.”

“Why not?”

“The Russians. As usual. The minute Steinhart talks to anybody on the Axis side, the Russians think we’re trying to make a separate peace. Before they get there. Which is probably what Antonescu did want, but all we’re asking is to let some kids out. Hirschmann, the Russians are suspicious because they always are, that’s what they’re like. So the grunt work, it’s better if it’s somebody they do know, who won’t make them nervous.” He opened his hand. “Tommy. They know what he does and it’s not negotiating peace.”

“They know him? How?”

“When we first set up here, there was some crazy idea we’d exchange information, you know, ally to ally, but that turned out to be a one-way street, the way it usually does with them, so there wasn’t a hell of a lot that got exchanged. But everybody kept pretending it did. Anyway, Tommy was our side. So they knew him.”

Leon’s cheek jumped, an involuntary tic. “He met with the Russians? On a regular basis?”

“At first. Then off and on, just to wave the flag, pretend we’re all working together. He’d give them stuff. German minefield chart once, for Sulina harbor. That was a big deal. We got our hands on it and no use to us, so let’s help the Russkies. Not that we ever got anything out of them.”

“Tommy talked to the Russians,” Leon said flatly, letting this sink in. Authorized, no need to meet in secret on a park bench or at a ferry railing, one eye looking back.

“Well, during the war. Now nobody talks to anybody. But it made him a good cover for Hirschmann. Hirschmann knew a lot of people in Washington. FDR even. The kind of guy puts the right word in somebody’s ear, and all of the sudden you get posted back stateside. I suppose I shouldn’t say, I mean he’s dead, but you know how Tommy always wanted Washington. So he probably thought Hirschmann was his ticket back. Was, too. Until the Russians got in the way the other night.”

“There’s a rumor around town they’re still looking for Jianu,” Leon said, floating it, something Frank was bound to hear anyway.

“There’s a rumor about everything,” Frank said, dismissive. “Smoke screen. They’re good at that. They have him. I want the one they don’t have. Who ratted Tommy out. He’s here. I can feel it.” Frank glanced at his watch. “I’m late for the consul. Walk with me.”

In the hall, Leon couldn’t let it go. “These meetings he had with the Russians. They keep minutes? What was said?” Some proof.

“Minutes?” Frank said, smiling. “This stuff? You had lunch maybe. A drink at the Pera. By accident. You didn’t take
minutes
.”

“But he’d tell you later. What was said.”

“For what it was worth. He thought it was mostly a waste of time—well, we all did.”

“Why Tommy? I mean, he volunteer for this?”

“When I asked him.” Frank looked at him. “I’m point desk for the Soviets.”

Leon stopped for a second, then caught up as they rounded the corner. “So Jianu—this was your operation?”

“I was briefed,” Frank said, careful, another distancing.

“Anyone else in Ankara? Sometimes things get overheard.”

“There was nothing to hear. All the details were up to Tommy. Time, drop-off. It’s procedure. Safer for him. The fewer people know.”

“No backup?”

“That would be for him to arrange.”

“But he didn’t,” Leon said, turning this over. “So he’d be the only one who knew.”

“But he wasn’t, was he?” Frank said. “And you’re not going to find him in there.” He gestured to the file in Leon’s hand. “Old war stories. He’s not in Ankara, either. He’s here.” He stopped. “Katherine.”

She was leaning against the desk, dressed for going out, high heels and a wide-brimmed hat, expecting sun, not Istanbul winter.

“There you are,” she said. “And I thought I was late.”

Frank looked at her blankly.

“For lunch?” she said, prompting. “The one you’re taking me to?”

“To tell you the truth—”

“You forgot and now you’re busy,” she said, sliding down off the desk, her skirt hiked up for a second, a flash of white slip.

Leon looked at her. A gray jacket open to a white silk blouse, bright lipstick that made the reddish hair seem darker. Green eyes, not a trick of the light.

“And then you’re back in Ankara and I’ll never get out, unless Barbara takes me.” She shuddered, for effect, then looked at Leon. “Why don’t you join us? The two of you can talk, and I’ll just sit there quiet as a mouse and nibble my cheese.”

“Can’t. Chained to my desk.” He gave a small tip of his head toward Frank, now cast as overseer. “Besides, there’s Lily’s party. I don’t want to run out of things to say.”

“You won’t. Not with Katherine,” Frank said, unexpectedly playful. “These people giving the party, they’re friends of yours? We have to be—”

“Lily runs Istanbul. The parties, anyway. Everybody’ll be there.”

“And no ambassadors,” Kay said. “For a change. I won’t have to be ‘representing my country.’”

“You’re always—” Frank started, about to be pompous, then caught himself. “Well, she’s dying to go.” He looked at her fondly. “You’d think it was your first party. All right, lunch. Just let me see the consul first.” He looked at his watch again. “Why don’t we go next door?”

“To the Pera? I can do room service myself.” She pulled a paper out of her purse. “Ginny gave me a list.” She turned to Leon. “You must know all these places. Troika?”

“Somewhere near,” Frank said.

Leon nodded. “Just a few blocks. Russian. You’ll enjoy it.”

“Fine, fine. Give me ten minutes,” Frank said, leaving.

Kay leaned back against the desk, the room suddenly quiet enough to hear the wall clock. An awkward silence, Leon fingering the folder, just standing. When he looked back up, her presence like a tug on his arm, he found her staring at him again, the way she had at the Pera. Another moment, still not talking, and then she looked away, breaking it. “Russian,” she said. “That’s funny. Here, I mean.”

“White Russian. Lots of them came in the twenties.”

“Another thing I didn’t know. More layers?”

“When you’re there, take a look up at the balcony. Two ladies knitting. Another one’s behind the cashier. They switch around. All blondes. Well, used to be.”

“They come every day?”

“To keep an eye on the place. It’s theirs. They were dancers. Then friends of Atatürk’s.”

“Friends?” she said, looking back at him.

“Mistresses,” he said, bowing.

“At the same time?”

He met her eyes, amused. “That I don’t know. But when he got tired of them, he set them up with the restaurant. So they’d have something. Or so the story goes.”

“Is that what they do here? I wonder if Frank would give me a restaurant when he gets tired of me.”

“Maybe he won’t.”

“No?” she said, then backed away. “Well, that’s lucky.” She picked up her purse. “How dressy is the party? What does Lily usually wear?”

“Something floaty.”

“Floaty.”

“You know, long and—floaty. Like a sari. I don’t know how else to describe it. She always seems to be floating through her parties.”

“That’s a help. So not the jersey. Maybe I’ll get some roller skates and we can float around together.”

Leon smiled. “You’ll be fine in anything,” he said, indicating the clothes she had on. “Whatever you like.”

“Only a man would say that.”

“Say what?” Frank said, coming back.

“That it doesn’t matter what you wear,” she said, suddenly jumpy, as if she’d been caught at something. “Ready?” She took his arm.

“It doesn’t. You always look nice.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s because you never look,” she said, teasing.

“Be careful with the Chicken Kiev,” Leon said. “The butter squirts.”

She raised her eyebrows, not sure whether he was making a joke, holding his glance for a second, then led Frank away.

Leon watched her go, not floating, high heels clicking across the parquet floor, legs long and sleek, pitched forward by the heels. Don’t ever wear skates. She must have once, a girl with freckles. Now it was high heels and soft blouses and a walk, something in the air. Marooned in Ankara, where Frank watched the Russians.

Leon looked down at the folder in his hand. A lot of trouble to go through to distance the ambassador. A Tommy he hadn’t known, the best of him. How do you weigh all the sides of someone? What had the Russians offered him? Money, an idea? But then there was also this, something he’d been proud of, according to Dorothy. The same man who’d tried to kill him at Bebek.

He took the folder back to his office and started reading through. What he’d been carrying on the train, history now. Still, why keep them locked away? The war was over. Or had Tommy simply forgotten about them? He read more, hoping to find something, but it was just what Dorothy and Frank had described, the Joint Committee, backdoor messengers, desperate trades.

He looked at the drawer. So why there? Why the bottle for that matter? Everyone knew Tommy liked a drink, hardly a secret. He opened the drawer. A few more files like the ones he’d read. He paged through. More of the same. He stared at the now empty drawer. Not the bottle, not the files, neither worth locking up. But nothing else there. He started closing the drawer. Maybe just another of Tommy’s Hardy Boys games, a man who used alphabet code. He stopped. Who played at hiding things.

He pulled the drawer all the way out and tapped a few places
on the bottom then stopped, feeling silly. False bottoms? Not even Tommy. He felt along the sides and lifted the drawer off its runners, pulling it all the way out, feeling behind, then tipping it over.

The envelope was taped near the back, away from the runners so that it would clear the bottom frame when the drawer was opened. He pried one piece of tape away, then yanked at the rest. A consulate envelope, not even sealed. He took out two passports. The same picture Enver Manyas had used. In one, Tommy was Donald Price, Rhode Island, in the other, Kenneth Riordan, Virginia. Turkish entry stamps, no doubt Manyas again, but nothing else. He’d never left the country.

In the back of each passport was a narrow slip of paper. More of Tommy’s code, not alphabet this time. DZ2374, AK52330. Leon stared at them, trying to work out a key, but came up with nothing. It seemed absurd, all of it. He was sitting at a desk with a drawer turned upside down, staring at meaningless numbers. But they must have meant something to Tommy. A man with passports who didn’t travel.

4

KANLICA

“I
DIDN’T THINK ANYBODY
was this rich anymore,” Kay said, looking past the bow of the boat.

Ahead of them the jetty that fronted Lily’s
yali
had been lined with hurricane lamps and the jalousied shutters left open, so that the whole house seemed to be shining with light, the white neoclassical facade bathed in it, throwing its mirror image back to the water. Lily had been lucky in the weather, a mild evening, more spring than winter, but even so it was cold on the water and Kay was hunched into a caracul coat, too curious to sit inside the cabin.

“The Vassilakos shipyards,” Leon said.

“Her husband was Greek?”

“No, no, a Turk. A Cypriot. The original owner was Greek. Lily’s husband bought him out during the population exchange. He kept the name, but he’s the one who really built the company.”

“What population exchange?”

“After the war with Greece. In ’twenty-three. Ethnic Greeks were sent home. Vice versa with Turks there. Whether anybody wanted to go or not. People who’d been here forever. It was a bad time. You go
to Izmir, places like that, it’s still an open wound. Anyway, it gave Refik a chance to buy.”

Kay looked up, about to ask more, then turned back to the house, too excited to be dragged into the past.

“Here comes the return trip,” she said as an empty launch approached. “And another. My god, how many boats has she got doing this?”

Lily’s
yali
was on the Asian side, near Kanlica, where people went for yogurt, and she had provided a small fleet of motorboats to ferry guests across.

“This is how they used to do it,” Leon said. “Everybody went by boat. See the
yali
next to hers? With the big overhang? The boats would just slip in underneath, the way they do in Venice.”

“Not anymore, I guess,” she said, looking at the dark house, half its timber fallen in. “What happened?”

“Fire. They’re all wood, the old
yalis
. Heated by braziers. One hot coal and—
woof
. It’s a shame, that one. It’s as old as the Köprülü, a really classic
yali
. They’re all going, one by one. Arson sometimes, to collect the insurance. People can’t afford to keep them up anymore.”

“Except Lily,” she said, looking at the house again. Houseboys in white jackets were helping people out of boats, lanterns flickering, the rippling water flashing back. She turned to Leon, her eyes catching the light. “Thank you. For bringing me.”

He dipped his head in a mock bow. “Pleasure. No dancing, you know. Mostly just gossip. I hope you won’t be bored.”

“I’ve never been less bored in my life,” she said, almost laughing. “I keep thinking a pumpkin’s going to come and take me away.”

He pretended to look at his watch. “Not yet. Remind me to show you the garden before we leave. It’s famous.”

“This time of year?”

“Well, you have to imagine it.”

And suddenly he was seeing it, that first Bosphorus spring with
Anna, everything in blossom, Judas trees and lilac and yellow laburnum, cherry and soft-green chestnut trees, pulling branches down to smell, dizzy with it. Years ago, when they’d been other people. He glanced over at Kay, still gawking at the house. As eager as Anna had been that day, bubbling over, catching his eye while Lily chattered away, a joke between them no one else heard. We talk about seasons, he thought, as if they repeated, came back, but they don’t. That spring was gone, irretrievable, a picture in an album, faces smiling, unaware of what would happen to them.