Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 12

CHAPTER 8

I had come, as we all do when we go to a city we have heard about so much, to find an Istanbul I thought I already knew—my city of presuppositions—whispers and memories of pashas and harems and sultans and girls with almond eyes, the Orient Express of Agatha Christie, the spies of Eric Ambler, the civilized letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections

I’d showered quickly, to not waste the precious substance, and begun to relax when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Elizabeth Darcy? I am calling for Ms. Darcy.” An American woman’s voice. Thank goodness my rusty Turkish wouldn’t be pressed into service quite yet! I’d been quite good at one time, but that was several years ago.

“Speaking.”

“I am calling from the American consulate. Mr. Lawrence Andover would like to speak with you.”

In a moment, a man’s voice came on. Articulate. Sophisticated. Under the current circumstances, infinitely soothing. “Ms. Darcy? This is Lawrence Andover. I work in the American Consulate and was told you’d be coming to replace Peter Franklin for the Trib.”

“Well, I’m here for a while. I didn’t know they’d sent my name.” I dabbed Estee Lauder cream on my face as I talked.

An appreciative chuckle. “Let’s say I have my sources.” Then his voice turned empathetic. “Peter was a good friend of mine. I was very sorry about his death.”

“Yes. We all were.” My voice caught. There was not much else to say.

Andover allowed a moment of respect to pass along the telephone line before continuing. “We at the Consulate like to meet new journalists as they arrive, especially American ones. Are you by chance free for a drink tomorrow?”

Was I free? Sure, I was free. Having been in Istanbul only long enough to shower, change clothes and take my obligatory refresher Bosphorus cruise, I was free.

“All right,” I said, as though looking over a busy schedule. “When and where?”

“I’ll pick you up at five-thirty in your lobby?” The consulate was right next door.

I jotted the appointment down on the hotel note pad.

Should I have mentioned the unsettling note to this diplomat? No. It would make me sound hysterical. Maybe when we were face to face on the morrow.

We signed off, great friends already. I had a plan and something on my social calendar. Until that happens, I don’t feel my assignment has started.

Unpacking didn’t take long. I don’t carry a lot. Books, including a beloved, worn copy of Pride and Prejudice went onto the night table. I never travel without Jane Austen, and it looked as if this time I’d need her.

At the moment, I couldn’t think of anyone to call about the note. Friends and family would get too upset. Things seem worse when they’re happening an ocean away and loved ones are, as far as one knows, on the scene and in harm’s way. I didn’t yet feel comfortable enough with the hotel staff. The police would blow everything out of proportion. Maybe somebody at the U.S. Consulate next door could be approached, though not till tomorrow.

I went out on the bathroom balcony and tried to peer through to the Golden Horn, a poor sister to the elegant Bosphorus. A few elegant old Ottoman buildings raised newly-painted heads above a clutter of slums.

As in every city, slums hold murk below the surface. I go into them to broaden my horizons, to get the other side of the story. Like their residents, I also look forward to leaving.

A car on the street below honked an imperious horn. I looked down. A small blue vehicle made its way through traffic with aggressive intent. After pushing others to the side, it stood still near the hotel while other cars snaked along.

I stepped back into my room and shoved the warning note farther into my purse’. Then I dropped onto the inviting bed without taking off my jeans or pulling the shabby drapes closed and fell into the deep sleep of those who have spent miserable hours flying across oceans and continents in steel conveyances with uncomfortable seats and less comfortable bathrooms and only their own apprehensive thoughts to keep them company—if you don’t count the loquacious water engineer sitting in your row.

The next-to-last thing I heard as I fell asleep was the insistent honking of a car horn under my window.

Sometime later, my door handle rattled.