Joseph Kanon - Istanbul Passage

Leon touched it, feeling it alive again, then nodded.

“Keep the car off the street. In case anybody spotted it.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

Mihai shrugged. “Don’t be sorry. Just get him out of Istanbul.”

“You were never there. You can trust me on that.”

“And him?”

They moved to the curb, watching the car pull away. Down the hill three men appeared out of the shadows, probably on their way to a mihanye . The night belonged to men here, roaming the streets in bored groups, the women safely shuttered away. Except for the ones loitering near the station, hoping for a few hours in one of the hotels. Salesmen from Izmir, with suitcases of samples. Workers up from the country to see about a job. A neighborhood used to new faces, passing through.

Leon took out a folded paper and handed it to Alexei. “In case they ask. They might not.”

“What?”

“Your tezkere . Internal passport. Foreigners have to carry them.”

“Foreigners. What am I?”

“Bulgar. I didn’t know what you could pass for. If you knew Turkish.”

“No.” He glanced at the passport. “It’s real?”

Leon nodded. “A refugee I knew. He moved on.”

“Your friend,” Alexei said, motioning to where the car had been. “He’s Romanian.”

“Was. Why?”

“He spoke to me. In the car. To see if I knew Romanian.”

“Why Romanian?”

“It’s like that with us. Romanians recognize each other. Something in the voice, maybe.” He looked in the passport. “Now Bulgar. Jakab?”

“A Bulgar Jew. That’s why you left.”

“A Jew,” he said to himself, trying it on, like a hat.

But the night clerk didn’t ask for a tezkere . A pale man with a beak nose and small eyes who might have been Bulgar himself, he took the money and handed Leon a key attached to a weight with a tassel. When Leon asked for glasses, he scowled but got up and went to the room behind and brought out two raki glasses, muttering in Turkish, a weary put-upon monotone.

“What did he say?” Alexei asked on the stairs.

“Not to make too much noise,” Leon said, holding up the glasses.

The hall light was on a timed switch, just long enough to get the key in the door before it snapped off again. The room was small, stained Liberty wallpaper and a curtain on a rod for a closet, not intended for long stays. A Turkish toilet and a shower, no tub. Alexei looked around.

“How long do I stay here?”

“About half an hour,” Leon said, going over to the window, parting the curtain to take in the street. “Don’t unpack.”

“Ah. Then where?”

“Somewhere nicer.” He looked at the lumpy bed. A chenille spread, pink, something a young girl would have. “Private.”

“And the man downstairs?”

“There’s a back way.” He put the glasses on the table.

“So. You brought some raki?”

“No.”

“Then why-”

“Anybody checks with him, he says we’re up here having a party. Tomorrow we’re sleeping it off. Buys us time to move.”

“A game,” Alexei said. “Hide-and-seek.”

Leon didn’t answer, lighting a cigarette and leaning back against the wall, giving Alexei the bed, the only seat.

“Two places. You expected trouble?” Alexei said.

Leon shook his head. “Just wanted to keep ahead of the Emniyet. If they’re watching. You’re not in the States yet. And illegal here. If they pick you up, there’s nothing we could do.”

“It was them? At the boat?”

“No. The Emniyet don’t like people coming in, but they can send them back. They don’t have to shoot them.”

Alexei leaned back against the rickety headboard. “Who then? The Russians. Old friends, maybe. Not Turks. Not my new friends, either,” he said, looking at Leon. “Not before we have our talks.”

“The photographs are in the bag?” Leon said.

“What photographs?”

“German aerials. I thought you were bringing out-”

“Do you think I’m a messenger? I brought myself out. The photographs-that was arranged in Bucharest. Your embassy has them. Maybe already in the pouch. In Washington. Who knows? How efficient are you?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Alexei smiled. “A lucky man. Nice hotel rooms. A trip to America. Everybody wants to go to America.” He looked down. “Before the Russians get them. And now they know I’m here. In Istanbul.”

“But not where.”

Alexei looked at him. “That’s right. Not where.”

Leon turned, glancing down at the street.

“Anything?” Alexei said.

“No, it’s quiet. We’ll give it a few more minutes.” When he turned back to face the bed, he saw that Alexei had closed his eyes. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Only resting. I get tired all the time now. Before I could go for days-now, always tired.” He smiled to himself. “Age, maybe.”

Leon looked at his face, softer with his eyes closed, but drained and spent, like someone winded after a race. He went to the window again, touching the gun in his coat pocket, still not real. The seedy hotel room, the empty raki glasses, the man lying dead on the quay-all part of someone else’s life. He just took the Ankara train and passed along papers. And now there was a gun in his pocket.

“Okay,” he said, eager to move, “better leave the light. Too early for bed.”

“But no one’s watching, you said.”

“I didn’t think there was anyone at the quay, either.”

Alexei nodded. “You know, it’s interesting. What saved me? We were early. A little later and I wouldn’t have been in the car. I’d have been-”

“Where they thought you were. Getting off the boat with your bag.”

“Who shot him? You or your friend?”

“We both did.”

He held the door open, a sliver of light, until Alexei reached the back stairs, then followed, feeling his way, back against the wall. The stairs themselves were easier, shadowy but catching light from the ground floor. He could hear a radio in the desk clerk’s office, loud enough to muffle any creaking steps. Alexei barely touched the banister, the duffel on his shoulder, not making a sound, someone used to going out the back. No one at the desk when they reached the ground floor. Audience laughter on the radio. Just the hallway now, past a utility room, then the back door, not even locked. In the street behind, no wider than an alley, Alexei stumbled into a trash bin but caught the lid before it could fall off, holding his breath for a second. Leon nodded toward the streetlight at the end. No one was out, all the mihanye customers farther down the hill.

“Which way?” Alexei said when they reached Ordu Caddesi, turning away as a half-empty tram passed.

“Just across. A few blocks.”

Small, quiet streets, then a larger one looking down toward the şehzade Mosque. A modern building with a buzzer entry system, not a courtyard with a nosy kapici . Leon opened the front door with a key. More timer switches on the stairs, but at least everything working, the lobby clean, smelling faintly of disinfectant.

“One more floor,” Leon said when they reached the landing.

“Who lives here?”

“University people. It’s nearby.”

“Students?”

“No, they couldn’t afford it.”

“So I’m a professor?”

“You’re not anything. You don’t go out. You’re not here.”

The flat was no more than functional, but a pleasant step up from the hotel.

“I stocked the fridge,” Leon said. “You should have everything you need. At least for the next few days.”

“Few days?”

“Or sooner. Depending on the plane.”

Alexei threw the duffel on the bed, then walked over to the bottle on a side chest. “So now the raki.”