Joseph Kanon - Istanbul Passage

“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.”