A pang hit my solar plexus. Pain of loss returned. Peter had been a close friend and associate for a long time. I wanted to joke with him about his housekeeping. I wanted to hear his raucous laugh.
“I hope you like the office,” said Bayram, glancing at the mess. “Mr. Franklin told me never to throw anything away.”
“Hmmm. Yes, Bayram. You’ve done a good job. When we get a chance, we’ll toss the junk, and then I’m sure it will be perfect.”
I shoved some files aside so I could sit in the rotating editor’s chair behind the larger desk. Bayram wriggled into his own place, facing me. Except we couldn’t see each other because of the mountain of paper between us.
I asked Bayram to reorganize my dumped file, and looked over Peter’s desk.
From this vantage point, there was some order in the casual filing system Peter had established. The files on my right looked tempting, with that new-old look of off-white stiff paper that had the patina of having been handled some, but not too much. And Peter had kept them close at hand, ready for consulting.
Might be some good leads here. Let’s see. Silver Wolves, the extreme rightist organization—a sub-head under “terrorism.” Peter had them filed together with illicit arms trade and drugs. I picked up another file. Kurdish separatists. Different from the Silver Wolves, but under the same general heading. The same with the Islamist terrorists bent on restoring the Caliphate.
It was a tribute to Turkey that all these groups had not torn society apart. Not completely. The country’s reputation and appeal to tourists remained solid.
I closed my eyes, but behind my lids paced the slinking gray figures of my dream. I stuffed the Silver Wolves’ papers back into the file. They could be as dangerous as any wolf. Was I acting as one of those beautiful sheep dogs of Eastern Turkey—the great yellow-eyed guardians who wore spiked collars to allow them to fight off the wolves?
I threw those three files into my briefcase to be read back at the Pera. I left a very thin one marked “Misc.” on the desk.
My sloppy habits will do me in one day.
CHAPTER 16
These are nothing like the remains of great empires to be seen in western cities, preserved like museums of history and proudly displayed. The people of Istanbul simply carry on with their lives amid the ruins.
Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul, Memories and the City
At the U.S. consulate in Pera, next to the Pera Palas, work carried on as usual. Junior officers, supervised by their betters, issued visas to the lines of hopeful applicants. “Are you coming back? How long will you be gone?” All the answers were carefully rehearsed. Like people from other countries, Turks wanted to go to America.
Upstairs, in offices with windows overlooking the Golden Horn, sat the men—and occasional woman—who ran the place. The consul-general, William Farrin, neared retirement. Istanbul was the prize last posting he had earned.
Farrin’s deputy, Lawrence Andover, did most of the work, however. Andover had convinced the State Department to let him stay in Istanbul more-or-less forever. His knowledge of the language and culture was valuable in sorting out a complicated city and country. His networks were legendary.
And Andover lacked that driven need for a promotion that could have made life difficult within the Consulate community. He seemed quite happy being deputy to the Consul. A loyal soldier. And a diplomat who charmed everyone.
Farrin didn’t know what he would do without Lawrence.
Lawrence had handled all the arrangements for Peter Franklin, the journalist, at the messy end of that tragedy. That work alone won him a row of gold stars in his boss’s mind.
CHAPTER 17
Although only ten days had passed since the news of the Commissioner’s appointment, everyone in town already knew all there was to know about him, where he was born, who his father and mother were, his financial position, what sort of student he had been at school, if he had a weakness for women, if he drank and how much, his likes and dislikes, every single thing.
Yașar Kemal, Anatolian Tales
Now to write the story. Today’s story for the Trib. I assumed there would be one. First, I had to review the wire copy. It seemed a long time since I’d first gone out as a novice reporter. Senior editing, which I’d been promoted to some time ago, isn’t the same thing.
When Bayram handed me back my now-orderly file, the note reminding me of drinks with Lawrence Andover lay on top. Bayram had clearly seen it, though he gave no hint. Clearly, he was the soul of discretion, well-trained by Peter as a reporter’s assistant.
By one o’clock I was famished and suggested we eat lunch together. The young man’s earnest face beamed with pleasure—something that always stirs up my demons for no good reason. I gave him a warning: “I’ll need to get some information from you, Bayram.”
Down we went to street level, in the same cramped elevator. There were two Turks (male) and another foreign woman riding with us. Most were journalists. You can just tell. Maybe it’s the up-front ego that’s a prerequisite for going into a news career; maybe the resigned look that says, “I’ve seen it all.” Or maybe it’s just the tense look that says, “I’ve got a deadline and I don’t have any idea what I’m going to file.”
Bayram nodded to the dark-suited young woman. Her red hair was sticking up in a style that was trendy but easy-care.
“Elizabeth Darcy, this is Miss Mollington, Faye Mollington of the London News. Ms. Mollington, ma’am, this is Ms. Darcy, who has come to take the place of, uh…to cover for the Tribune for a month or so.” Bayram blushed.
My opinion of him went up a notch. He had cared about Peter and he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.
Faye Mollington met my eyes with no-nonsense gray ones, stuck out a firm hand, all the while looking preoccupied. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. Why? I sneaked a peak around the elevator.
Besides the three of us, there were the two Turkish men, who looked more like television types than newspaper reporters. One had a look that screamed “executive,” spiffy all around. The other was well-dressed from the top of his head to the bottom of his jacket, declining in impressiveness past trousers that had a couple of spots and shoes run-down at the heels. Shoes never show on television. Must be an anchor. The men were conversing in Turkish, and neither Bayram nor Faye introduced them.
On the sidewalk, Faye Mollington took a hasty leave, saying she had to meet someone for lunch. She strode up the street, her raincoat sailing out behind her, a reporter’s notebook tucked under her arm.
Bayram’s gaze followed her, a slight smile on his face. “She and Mr. Franklin were good friends.”
“Indeed,” I said. “I must get to know her better, then.”
CHAPTER 18
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions.
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Bayram and I ate in one of those small, third-class restaurants that I would normally avoid in the developing world but embrace in Turkey, where food and cleanliness come next to godliness in the national creed. Crisp lamb döner kebab crackling with hot fat, sliced off the turning vertical spit onto warm, chewy pita bread…melted butter and tomato sauce, yogurt, and still more melted butter poured on…a nice little garnish of fresh broad-leaved parsley.… The smell of olive oil and lemon, of garlic sauted to the perfect “pinkness.” It was hard to turn my mind to business.
But I had a job to do—the only job as far as editors at the Trib