Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series). Peggy Hanson

urgency.

      “Hmmm. I see what you are thinking.” His voice came slowly, almost hesitantly, not at all like his confidence a moment ago. “I’m not sure. Of course the Kurdish extremist question ties in with some of the drug and arms smuggling, too. With Iran and Iraq to the east, Chechnya and Armenia to the north, and Bosnia, Bulgaria and Rumania to the west.…” He jabbed a nicotine-stained finger up, down, right, and left as he spoke. “And all those former communist mafias lurking in the area—you are going to have tie-ins. Terrorist groups need money and arms. Drugs often are the way for getting them.”

      Haldun lit another Yeni Bahar. Its aromatic smoke filled the air and added a layer to the smudge on the window. I choked in as polite a fashion as possible.

      “And Islamic fundamentalism…does that tie in, too?”

      Haldun stirred his tea and sipped. “Of course, the Islamist movement should be helping to curb the drug trade. The country is a lot more religious than it used to be. You’ve probably seen more women wearing scarves than they used to—my own wife has started doing it and people in villages have always been conservative. It’s a swing of the pendulum after the years dominated by Atatürk and his secularism. But extremists enter every movement, good or bad, and when they do, all bets are off.”

      “Especially when Iran is your immediate neighbor,” I murmured.

      “Yes. Yes! Then, of course, there are the ultra-nationalists to think about. The right-wing neo-Nazis.”

      “You mean the terrorist groups that target professors and intellectuals they find too liberal?” They’d been doing that back when I lived in Turkey.

      “Exactly. The biggest group is the Silver Wolves.”

      I was writing as fast as I could. “Quite a cast of characters… But you still haven’t answered my question about Peter. Did he ever talk to you about any of these stories?”

      Haldun stood up, stretched as he lighted yet another cigarette, and signaled for me to turn off the tape recorder.

      CHAPTER 40

      “And do you know what I’ll do, Resul Efendi? I’ll go straight to Ankara, to the Ministry and tell them what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I won’t give up the fight.”

      Yașar Kemal, Anatolian Tales

      “I suppose it is time to talk about Franklin,” Haldun Kutlu muttered. He went to the window and scowled out at the sodden day.

      “You probably think Franklin learned too much and was, shall we say, disposed of,” Haldun said, turning back to me.

      “Of course I think he was murdered!” I was surprised at the conviction in my voice. Journalists are like cops—they hate to see one of their own get taken out. And they can’t stand to see false evidence tainting a good man’s reputation after he can no longer defend himself.

      Kutlu sat back down, his broad gestures rumpling his hair and suit even more. “I happen to agree with you,” he growled. “Franklin was a good journalist and was getting close to some stories plenty of people could have taken exception to. My guess is someone took violent exception. Now is that person—or group—Turkish or foreign? Or some kind of mix? Without the police behind us, it won’t be easy finding out. I have a couple ideas regarding people we need to see.”

      We? Looked like I was getting a colleague. Or being deputized. Haldun had obviously planned a strategy that predated meeting me.

      “One of our first contacts should be a woman by the name of Leila Metin who works at Topkapı Museum. She’s an expert on Iznik tiles and ceramics. There are rumors that her brother might be a member of the Silver Wolves.”

      Aha. That was in Peter’s notes, too.

      Haldun’s voice was matter-of-fact and his expression bland. “She probably will not tell us about that.”

      CHAPTER 41

      A cup of coffee commits one to forty years of friendship.

      Turkish proverb

      I jotted down the name: Leila Metin at Topkapı Museum. I’d go see her very soon. People were starting to demand Haldun Kutlu’s attention in the Cümhüriyet office, so I stood to leave.

      I’d found a companion in the cynical, weathered journalist. Our search could be unpleasant, at best, and dangerous, at worst.

      “Haldun Bey, I think we have a deal.” Our gazes met for a moment. The kindly intelligence reassured me.

      “Before I forget, let me give you these papers,” he said. “Franklin dropped these by my house a couple days before he died. I have theories. It may be better I not have them at the office.”

      And they were safer with me? A murder had taken place last night on the sidewalk of my hotel. Should I keep valuable documents there? I hadn’t even told Haldun about that incident. But he was clearly ushering me out. There would be time later.

      He handed me the small packet of papers, which I received with the solemnity it deserved. It’s rare for journalists to share something as vital as information. This indicated trust.

      “I appreciate this,” I said. “I’ll call you when I’ve finished.” Then I left with my briefcase bulging and a set of new theories in my head.

      There was something gallant about Haldun Kutlu. It touched me. He knew we were wading into an unknown morass better than I. If he didn’t flinch, neither would I.

      I caught a cab back to the Pera Palas. I didn’t want to walk the streets with valuable papers. It was good to get going on my basic missions, of covering the news while searching for the truth about Peter.

      I went straight to the Tribune office, greeting Bayram and doing my morning read-in. I kept the papers from Haldun Kutlu in my briefcase, resting against my leg. It would be good to get those back to the hotel this afternoon. It would also be good to get back to Jane Austen. You wouldn’t find terror cells or murders of friends or even strangers anywhere near her settled village life.

      CHAPTER 42

      He will kill mice, and he will be kind to babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard.

      Rudyard Kipling, on the cat

      Sultana sniffed the garbage at the house in Üsküdar not far from where Ayla fed her. Pink nose framed by delicate whiskers, she resembled an attractive coed doing a research project—probably one in a lab.

      She had followed the young man who leaned down to pet her at the wharf. Sultana was a princess. She accepted homage from any source.

      And, like cats of all castes, she was curious.

      Most garbage in Üsküdar smelled rather good—some fish, a pile of chicken bones, left-over fruits and vegetables or rice pilav, a little oil or gas, odds and ends. This garbage smelled different—almost like almonds, though Sultana didn’t eat almonds.

      Sultana didn’t know the word for ammonium nitrate, either. People used fertilizer in their gardens, where she dug holes for her own purposes. This fertilizer didn’t smell like donkey dung, however.