Joseph Kanon - Istanbul Passage

Altan looked over. “Good.” He nodded, pleased. “Georg. Good.”

Leon took up the part. “I found the man Georg said you were looking for.”

“What man?” Altan said, lowering his voice, playing too.

“The translator. Fluent in Romanian, Russian. Some German. Hard to find, but I did.”

Altan was quiet for a minute, running the conversation through his mind, then smiled a little. “So you did.”

A French door opened behind them.

“ Domnul Jianu,” Altan said, the Romanian word a courtesy. “You’re finished with your lunch?”

“Do you have a cigarette?” he asked Leon, then to Altan, “American cigarettes. You get spoiled.”

“That’s all they have in America,” Altan said, pleasant.

Leon handed the pack to Jianu, keeping his hand steady. What did his face look like, some telltale blush, giving him away? But maybe people only saw what they were looking for, a magic mirror effect, the smooth, reassuring look of someone you thought you knew.

“It’s arranged?” Alexei said, lighting the cigarette.

“Almost. A phone call,” Altan said.

Alexei looked up.

“They want to hear from me personally,” Leon said. “Make sure.” Not even a catch in his throat, his voice smooth too, someone else.

Alexei nodded, accepting this.

“Let’s see if the line’s open now,” Altan said, beginning to move. “Better stay inside.” This to Alexei, with a look to the house. “Boats have eyes too.”

“But you’d be the ones watching,” Alexei said. “I thought.”

Altan met his stare. “Not only.” He made an ushering gesture toward the house. “Leon,” he said, heading inside.

Leon stood rooted to the deck, waiting for Alexei, who drew on the cigarette, watching Altan go.

“Be careful of that one,” Alexei said, his voice intimate, something between them. “I don’t trust him.”

Leon looked at the water, afraid of his face again. “He’s right, though. You never know.”

“No,” Alexei said and started for the door, putting his hand on Leon’s shoulder as he passed.

Leon kept staring out. The birds had gone away. Was anyone in fact watching? What would they see? The long white terrace, motorboats tied to mooring poles, the flash of the sun on the French windows. Pretty, placid, as calm as the water where the fish had been.

“How am I supposed to act?” Kay said, touching her hair, nervous.

“Like someone having tea.”

“Tea. Mata Hari used to stay here. It says in the brochure. I’ll bet she never had tea.”

“At this hour she did.”

There were only a few people in the Pera bar this early, the winter sun still warming the apricot walls. Lamps with fringe, velvet-covered cushions, the fussy luxury of an Orient Express car.

“I don’t think I could have done it.”

“What?”

“Sleep with generals. Steal things out of their pockets.”

“I don’t think that’s how it’s done now,” Leon said, a half smile.

“No?” she said quickly, another pat to her hair. “How is it done?”

“You drink that and look happy to see me.”

“And disappear when he gets here.”

Leon nodded.

“Go to my room and not know what this is about, either.” She looked down at her cup. “Happy to see you. It scares me how happy I was. I thought I wouldn’t.”

“I said I’d-”

“I know. And you did.” She looked up. “For how long?”

“One last thing. And then it’s over.”

“Until the next time.”

“No. Over.”

“Really?” she said, then started picking at her finger. “Does it work that way? Just quit? I thought it was like the army.” She took out a cigarette, something to put in her hand. “When did you decide this?”

“Today.”

“What happened today?” she said, looking up.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” she said back, lighting the cigarette. “At least you didn’t say it’s because of me. I’d have probably believed it too.” She shook the match out. “I’m an easy lay.”

“Only at first.”

She raised her eyebrows, then smiled.

“That’s it. You’re supposed to be happy to see me.”

“Better?” she said, a full smile now, then looked down. “Will you come later?”

He nodded. “Wait for me.”

“Do you know, I actually felt that. A jump. Here.” She moved a hand down to her stomach. “Just hearing that.” She knocked off some ash, fidgeting, glancing around the room. “Who’s watching anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he said, following her glance.

“I mean, who’s supposed to be watching?”

Who would be? Altan must have someone. Would Melnikov risk a meeting alone? Barksdale, still not sure of him? The barman? The waiter? The Turkish woman with the hat?

“I don’t know,” he said again, hearing himself this time, the absurdity of it. “Everybody. All the time. If you keep doing it. Someone always is. That’s what it’s like. All the time.” A conversation with himself now. You’re part of this.

“You’re going to bend that spoon.”

He looked down at his hands, his thumbs pressing against the thin neck of polished steel.

“You do that. There’s nothing in your face, and then I hear a snap and I see something’s been going on all the time.”

He dropped the spoon, looking away, someone caught.

“Tell me what you were thinking. Just now. Don’t make something up. What you were really thinking.”

He picked up the spoon again, staring at it.

“Tell me.”

“What do you do,” he said, still looking down, as if he were reading, “when there’s no right thing to do. Just the wrong thing. Either way.”

She said nothing for a minute, not expecting this.

“And you can’t avoid it anymore. Doing something.” He looked up. “What do you do?” Not really a question, not even to himself.

“I don’t know,” she said, stalling, then met his eyes. “Are you talking about me?”

“What? No,” he said, moving his hands over, catching a spill. “I didn’t mean-” He stopped. “Not you,” he said softly.

“Oh,” she said, just a sound, her face flushing, surprised again. She reached over, covering his hands. “Then what?”

Drawing him in, as if they were in bed, no secrets.

He looked at her for another second, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

“We could get up, right now, and walk out of here,” she said, still clutching his hand, her eyes fixed on him. “Just keep going. Before there’s anything more. We could do that.”

Through the doors, past one of Gülün’s men, on Altan’s leash, past the consulate. I’ve explained you. Altan waiting.

“I can’t,” he said, moving his hand away.

She kept hers on the table. “Why not? One last thing. What last thing?”

Well, what?

“We can find out who killed Frank.”

“Frank?” she said, thrown, pulling her hand back. “How? What do you mean? That’s what he’s coming here for?”

“No.”

“Are you doing this for me? Don’t. What does it matter who? Somebody, that’s all. It doesn’t change anything.”

“And next time it’ll be somebody else. Maybe me.”

Her eyes flashed, then looked away, a backing off. She drew on her cigarette to calm down.

“You think a Russian did it,” she said.

“Not this Russian. Smile again. He’s here.”

Over her shoulder, he could see Melnikov hesitate at the door, an entrance, then head straight for them. He did everything he was expcted to do-his surprise at seeing them, remembering Kay from Lily’s party, not wanting to intrude but persuaded to stay-but all of it done so clumsily that only his awkwardness made it seem authentic. Leon thought of Lily, gliding through her guests. Melnikov ordered vodka. Then, having exhausted his script, he sat waiting for Leon, a silence anyone in the room would notice.