Joseph Kanon - Istanbul Passage

Leon joined him on the seat, their jackets touching.

“Ten minutes,” Altan said over his shoulder. “Get ready.”

Alexei pulled the duffel bag closer. “Well, then it’s good-bye,” he said to Leon. He looked down, oddly hesitant. “You know that job-training your people-the one I talked about? If you could mention it to someone. If you think it would help. A word from you-”

Leon nodded, cutting him off, each word like a tug on his sleeve.

He got up, leaning against the gunwale, as if there were something to see in the water. “Tell me. It can’t matter to you now. I mean, we’re here. So what I think doesn’t-”

Alexei lifted an eyebrow.

“What did you do at Străuleşti?”

“Why do you ask this?” Alexei said.

Leon looked at him, waiting. Make it easier for me.

“It’s not enough, your ship?”

“I want to know.”

A long silence, Alexei looking at his hands.

“What you told me-” Leon said.

“What? I don’t even remember anymore. What I said. But you have to know. Something that happened-” He looked out toward the old city. “In another world.” Quiet again, then turning back to Leon. “Outside. Only outside. I never went in. Didn’t I say that? It’s the truth. The meat stamps, the hooks-I wasn’t part of that. Craziness. I was outside.” He stopped. “Like a guard. Of what, I don’t know. Outside.” He looked up. “But I could hear. Is that what you want to know, what I heard?”

“No.”

“No, it’s better. Don’t listen. Someday maybe somebody asks you,” he said, looking at Leon, “and what do you say? I had to do it? All you can say is, I was there. But outside. I was outside.” He stopped. “Do you think it would have made any difference? If I hadn’t been there?”

Leon said nothing.

“None. Maybe a difference to me,” he said, his voice lower. “Not to hear it. But not to them.” He took a breath. “So. Now stop asking me this. Wait a few years, when you see what things are like. Then ask.”

“And that’s the truth.”

“Didn’t I say so?”

Leon nodded. “Everyone else is dead.”

“That’s right. There’s only me to say. Everyone’s dead. Not just them. Everyone. People I knew.”

“But you weren’t standing outside then.”

“You want to blame me for this? There has to be somebody? So it makes sense?” He waved his hand. “Go ahead. And will that make any difference, either?” He shook his head. “They’re dead. You want justice for them? Not in this world.”

“All right, let’s go,” Altan said, motioning the driver to pull up to the jetty. “Careful of the step.”

Alexei stared at Leon. “That’s what things were like, that time. It’s different now.”

Leon looked back. No squeals this time. Nothing to hear. A simple exchange, people passing by.

“Good luck,” Altan said, taking Alexei’s hand to steady him for the climb out of the boat. Friendly, helping him along.

Alexei made it in two steps, the duffel following.

“Gülün and his men will be at the top of the stairs,” Altan said to Leon, glancing toward the bridge. “Don’t look for him or the aslan will know,” he said, sarcastic. “Just the two of you. Until it’s too late. Then bring Melnikov’s man back. Let’s hope he’s not a Turk. After all this.”

Leon stood, not moving, eyes fixed on Altan’s upper lip. No moustache.

“All right?”

All right. A matter of minutes, that’s all. Something Alexei had done-how many times? What he wanted to do in Washington, handing over names, already had done for Altan at Lily’s. It gets easier. But just then, lifting himself out of the boat, the minutes felt endless. Altan waved and pulled away.

They made their way to the bridge through the Karaköy market, sidestepping pools of melted ice streaked with fish blood, strands of wilted greens. Cats lurked behind the stalls, waiting for scraps. There was more food near the steps of the bridge, stuffed mussels and braziers with chestnuts.

They stopped for a minute on top, catching a breath before they waded into the crowd. Don’t look for Gülün, anybody, just start walking. Meet in the middle, no advantage on either side. Not too fast, as formally paced as a gunfight, except in a Western there’d be no one else in the streets, the townspeople cowering and Melnikov dressed in black, to make everything clear. Instead there were water salesmen with silver canisters strapped to their backs and hamals wheeling carts and a simit peddler with a tray of bread rings balanced on his head.

Leon felt the gun in his pocket. Not something you’d want to use in a crowd, just in case. In case what? They had to shoot their way back? Altan had never said, but now that they were here Leon knew. Alexei would recognize Melnikov, not a stranger, and might have to be persuaded to keep going, prodded forward. Maybe even shot if he tried to bolt. In the foot, a knee, somewhere to keep him alive for Melnikov. The gun was for Alexei.

And Melnikov would have his own, ready to use on the other side, his man unsuspecting too until the final minute. Maybe until he recognized Leon. Someone who’d killed Frank and would kill again, meanwhile betraying them all to the Soviets. There were two people in this trade, not just Alexei. A frontier justice, maybe the only kind there ever was. Think of it as bringing someone to trial.

“What kind of car?” Alexei said. “American?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t say. In front of the mosque, that’s all.”

Each step a foot closer. His eyes darted over the fishermen lining the rail, waiting for one of them to turn his head as they passed, not a fisherman. What it must feel like hunting, preparing to kill, a lion watching the grass.

They were on the Horn side of the bridge, traffic coming from behind. Maybe a burst of gunfire from a passing car. The Russians were capable of anything, any deceit. But all he saw were taxis on their way to Sirkeci. Don’t look back, Alexei sure to notice. So far not even wary, trusting the car to be there, trusting Leon. Everything as planned. Then why the dismay, this constriction in his chest, Leon feeling that it was he who was being brought to trial. Betraying, Alexei had said, gets easier. Leon glanced over. Now eager, almost boyish, what he must have looked like in Bucharest.

Leon scanned the crowd up ahead. Maybe a quarter of the way across now, Melnikov here soon. I think you may be surprised. Some teenage boys ran out of the stairway from the restaurant level below. Where he and Kay had had lunch, looking at minarets, Ed embarrassed to stumble on them. Years ago.

How many times had he walked across this bridge, feeling lucky to be here? Now, a shiver, he sensed everything was about to change. Even in this half-light things seemed sharper, as if they knew he’d have to remember them, be asked about them one day. And what would he say? I was outside. Listening. He glanced over at Alexei again. A head snapped on a bathroom floor because it was in the way. I’m not you. A wave of panic rose in his throat, like bile. I’m not you. But everything now set in motion, Melnikov already somewhere in the sea of heads coming toward them. The simit man was back, partly blocking the view. Leon leaned a little to his left.

And saw the hat. The same floppy brim she’d worn at Tommy’s service, just in from Ankara. Not sure if it was proper to smoke in the street. Later, shy against the window light. Walking now with Melnikov. No. He kept moving. Kay raised her head, looking into the crowd. Looking for him? Or for some story Melnikov had made up to put her at ease? Part of him visible now, just over her right shoulder, as if she were a kind of shield to use before he threw her away. Someone in Ankara. The Russian desk. No. Leon hearing her voice, not the traffic, everything she had ever said, almost dizzy with it. Any of it real? None of it? Still coming toward them.