Joseph Kanon - Istanbul Passage

Frank Bishop had come from the embassy in Ankara, stiff and formal in a black suit and owlish horn-rimmed glasses. He had brought his wife, a woman Leon hadn’t met, his dealings with Frank usually a drink at the Ankara Palas or an early dinner at Karpić’s, just long enough to leave papers. She kept her head half bowed, so Leon had to crane slightly to see her face, or the part of it not shadowed by her hat. Pale skin, just a hint of makeup, reddish hair, younger than Frank. Next to them, the Liggett & Myers rep was handing out candy to his restless children. A committee from the club had sent a wreath. Barbara wept during the reading of the Twenty-third Psalm. The minister spoke of Tommy’s open heart and concern for others. No one in the solemn, drafty room, Leon realized, had known him at all.

Afterward, they clustered at the door, hugging or shaking hands, then started the steep climb up. A taxi had been ordered for Barbara, its width almost filling the narrow street, but everyone else went on foot, wives clinging to their husbands’ arms, careful of their heels on the paving stones.

“Christ, I don’t know how the hamals do it,” Frank said, winded, when they reached the top.

“Hamals?” his wife said.

“You know, stevedores, whatever you call them. Who carry things. You see some of the loads, you don’t know how they can stand up.”

“It’d be mules this far up,” Leon said.

“I don’t think you know my wife, Katherine,” Frank said.

“Kay,” she said, almost fiercely, as if she were angry about something. She was wearing dark glasses against the winter sun, her eyes no more visible that they’d been in church.

“Nice of you to come,” Leon said, taking out a cigarette. “It’s a long trip, Ankara.”

“Could I have one of those? Do you mind? Or isn’t it all right? On the street, I mean. I never know what the right thing to do is in this country.” Not anger, more a general impatience, waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“You’re among friends,” Leon said, lighting hers.

“Katherine, I wish you wouldn’t,” Frank said, her name some pointless tug-of-war between them.

“Oh, I know. Set an example. Just two puffs. Those hymns . Barbara carrying on. I never thought she cared two cents for him.”

“Katherine-”

“All right. Not appropriate.” She dropped the cigarette and ground it out. “Sorry,” she said to Leon. “I didn’t mean to waste it.”

Leon smiled. “I’ve got plenty. I’m in the business.”

“What business?”

“I buy tobacco. For export.”

“I thought you were with the consulate. Like everyone else,” she said, dipping her head toward the others.

“Only when I need a permit.”

“There’s Barbara,” Frank said. Her taxi had now reached the square and was waiting for the tram to turn. “At least we’ll get decent grub at the Pera. And it’s right by the consulate.”

“Convenient,” his wife said.

“Mm. Tommy’s second office. Funny to think of having his wake there.”

The tram moved and they started across.

“Ted,” Frank said to the man ahead of them. “Katherine, do you mind tagging along with the Kiernans? I need to have a word with Leon. We’ll catch up.”

She lifted her head, about to protest, but Ted had already taken her elbow, so she settled for being annoyed, not bothering to say good-bye.

“Do you have another?” Frank said, nodding to Leon’s pack. “We need to talk,” he said while he lit it. “Walk with me.” A self-satisfied boarding school voice, used to getting his way.

They started up the Istiklal Caddesi.

“This is a real mess,” Frank said.

“Tommy, you mean.”

Frank nodded. “And I don’t have a lot of time. What did you do for Tommy? Besides the courier job, I mean.”

“Just a few favors,” Leon said, hesitant. “I know a lot of people in Istanbul.”

“And speak Turkish, I know,” he said, checking off some invisible list. “Tommy liked to work outside. Now it looks like he had his reasons, but it makes it hell with the books.”

“What books?”

“Petty cash. Special funds. Tommy liked special funds. So, all right, informants, they don’t want their names floating around on check stubs, but it makes things hard to trace.”

“Are you asking if Tommy paid me? He bought me a meal once in a while,” Leon said.

“I’ll buy you more than that.”

Leon stopped. “To do what?”

“To be Tommy.”

“What?”

“You’re a businessman. You can read books, can’t you?”

Leon nodded, suddenly light-headed, a new mix of absurdity and caution.

“Maybe you can read Tommy’s. A fucking mare’s nest. Maybe you can make some sense of them.”

“You’ve already been through them,” Leon said, still stitching things together.

“We need to put somebody on his desk. Until we can get a new man. Nobody at the consulate knows you worked for him, do they? So they won’t suspect.”

“Suspect what?”

“That you’re working for me,” Frank said, a little surprised, as if Leon hadn’t been following. “I can’t use anybody inside. It’s compromised.”

The same word Alexei had used, the same world.

“You think somebody at the consulate killed him?” Leon said, his voice his own but coming from somewhere outside his body.

“Or set him up.”

“And you want me to find him?” he said carefully, slowing things down, not trusting his voice now.

“I’ll find him. But I need someone to help. From outside. You knew him, the way he worked.”

“How do you know it wasn’t me?” Trying it, irresistible.

“Because your movements are accounted for. Sorry about your wife, by the way. I never knew. Anyway, this operation, it had to be someone inside. He wouldn’t have let you in on this. Nothing personal. Just the rules.”

For a second Leon felt a rush of air in his throat, not a laugh, just an odd release of pressure. Of course they still trusted Tommy. By dying he’d become the only one they could trust.

“What operation,” Leon said, testing.

“Look, you in this? I know you guys during the war-you did it for that. Now you think it’s over. Believe me, it’s not over.” He paused. “Tommy always said you were good.”

Leon turned, focusing on a tram approaching, keeping things straight.

“Reynolds doesn’t have a problem with this. If that’s what’s bothering you.”

“You’ve already talked to them,” Leon said, surprised. He let a minute go by. “What operation?”

Frank dipped his head, plunging in. “He was bringing someone out.”

“One of ours?”

“Theirs. Knows Russian Military Intelligence. The cast list. Lots. We were going to have a nice talk.”

“And now?”

“Well, if Tommy’s dead, I’d say he’s back with the Russians, wouldn’t you? Or dead. Let’s hope so, anyway. Better for everybody now.”

“If he’s dead,” Leon said quietly. Yesterday’s friend.

Bishop nodded. “Now he knows us. Tommy wasn’t the only one in this. So let’s hope he’s dead. We want to be sure of that,” he said, almost casually, without menace, only the eyes steely. Leon looked at him. Same sandy hair, probably the same glasses he’d worn at Groton, but everything hardened now, years in the business.

“How can you do that?”

“Whoever sold out Tommy’s in touch with the Russians. Let’s start with him. Let’s find him.”

Leon took a breath, the air in his head clouding again, feeding on itself.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking. Somebody killed Tommy. Maybe they’ll try to take a shot at you.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking that. Really.” An irony almost too complicated. Move away. “What do you want me to do?”