Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 15

CHAPTER 11

At table keep a short hand; in company keep a short tongue.

Turkish proverb

Rays of early sunlight streamed across my newspaper in the dining room of the Pera. I sipped black, sweet Turkish coffee down to the grounds and then chewed the last bits, washing it all down with the bottled water on the table.

The jet-lag medicine had finally helped me get to sleep, but the night had been fitful. Was someone was after me? First on the ferry, then the note, and finally the movement of the door handle? How different things would have been if Peter were here with me.

And I don’t mean in a romantic sense. Peter had that dangerous edge to him that attracts women, but he wasn’t great in the intimacy area. We’d almost tried that once. Almost. And the reason it didn’t work wasn’t all Peter’s fault. I’m a fine one to talk about intimacy.

About half the headlines in Cümhüriyet were intelligible to me this morning. I sighed. My Turkish had been so good when I lived here…first on the Moda coast along the Asian side, where ferries made watery tracks across to the Princes’ Islands…on a good day, you could see across the Sea of Marmara all the way to the mountains of Bursa. Later in Bebek on the European side, where the glory of the Bosphorus lay at my feet, including ferries, tankers from Russia, Rumania, and Bulgaria, swift little American and Turkish spy boats checking on them, luxurious wooden yalıs along the coast.

Those had been days of free-lance correspondent work, commitment a foreign concept. Well, face it, commitment might never be a strong point with me. I could have enjoyed commitment a few years ago, when going to a restaurant alone felt strange and when I made an odd wheel at parties… At this stage of my life, when some of my friends were starting to worry over grandchildren, I found it exciting and stimulating to have no specific ties, no immutable partner. I rather liked my own company.

Still, it would be nice to have someone special again. I had plenty of girlfriends. It wasn’t quite the same.

One of the Cümhüriyet headlines announced that police had arrested a terorist in Istanbul. A fuzzy picture showed a man being led away by uniforms. With my rusty Turkish, I couldn’t understand the gist of his alleged crimes.

The unexplained term terorist probably meant the man was with the PKK, Kurdish separatists from the southeast. Because of the ongoing conflict between Turkish authorities and the PKK, for years the Kurdish group had used explosives to disrupt Turkish life. New linkages with Islamic extremists in recent years, however—and old linkages with communists or nationalists—made it hard to say just what the roots of terror were at any given point. Everybody seemed to have a cause they felt was worth blowing others up for.

Maybe because my Turkish was bad, maybe because apprehension lay under the surface, my attention wandered to last night’s note. What did “be careful” mean? Too vague to be useful. Was someone trying to scare me? Why not just explain the problem?

Yet this morning my spirits were high. Hard to concentrate on fear with the distraction of chewy light-brown Turkish bread accompanied by wild cherry jam. Fresh piquant goat cheese with briny dry olives seduced me from another plate. I chased my coffee down with water and a tangy sour cherry juice.

A man sat at a table near me. He wore a tan suit and was handsome in a French sort of way—and he stared at me. Did I button my blouse wrong? Did I have a coffee grounds mustache?

I passed a napkin across my lips and ordered more coffee. Ignoring the strange man’s stares, I retrieved the glasses I’d set aside and began looking through the file in my briefcase.

The polite waiter in his black and white penguin outfit brought the coffee. As I reached to help set it on the table, my files cascaded from my briefcase onto the floor. Mustering what dignity I could, I scrabbled around for the papers. The note with Andover’s name, number, and the party meeting time had somehow gotten in with my file stuff and lay on top.

As I tried to stand up with what I’d retrieved from the mess, I realized I was not alone under the table. Brown shoes attached to tan-covered legs blocked my way. There were even arms and hands reaching under the tablecloth.

“Excuse me,” I blurted out, furious at my situation and outraged that anyone would have the unmitigated nerve to offer, nay, insist on, helping.

Especially at breakfast, when one should always be alone.

“I am so sorry. Please let me show that chivalry is not dead.” “Chivalry” had the accent on the second syllable. It was, of course, that man from the next table.

Tan-suit’s charm was beginning to get to me, like a little rash that starts to itch. “I don’t rely much on chivalry,” I replied frostily, trying to push the hair out of my eyes and hold the strewn papers at the same time.

With the slipperiness of paper that has been refined, one little group detached itself from the main clump in my arms and slid to the floor. Where is nice, rough recycled paper when you need it?

The man picked up that bunch and handed it to me , looking kind but apprehensive. Did he fear my re-losing control of the situation? Or regaining control? I had to admit he was low-key about the whole thing. And I hadn’t been nice to him.

In a flash, the humor of the situation hit me. I laughed, and Tan Suit grinned back in apparent relief. Grabbing the last of the papers and stuffing them unceremoniously into my briefcase, I sat down fast, leaving the guy standing beside the table.

“Thank you for your help,” I said. Maybe that would get rid of him gracefully and let me organize myself.

But once you laugh with someone, you have a relationship, no matter how tenuous. I stifled a sigh. “Do please sit down.”

Mr. Tan Suit reached into his wallet for a business card and handed it to me. The card said, “Jean Le Reau,” and indicated he was some kind of engineer with a firm called Alcotec. His gray eyes smiled into mine.

The penguin had returned to ask whether the new person at my table wanted anything, and was told no.

“Excuse me, but I think you know Turkish?” My companion’s eyes twinkled now.

“Well, yes. I know Turkish. I used to, anyway.” I was digging through my purse for my own business cards, which never seem to be at hand.

“You have worked here before?” The eyes probed mine. Calm. Purposeful.

I grinned to show I wasn’t hostile. “I am a journalist. I have worked many places.” My heart raced a bit from scrabbling under the table.

“Perhaps you can, you know, help me?” said Mr. Le Reau.

“What is it you need?” I hoped it didn’t sound rude. Ah, there were my cards. I got one out and pushed it toward him.

“I am trying to negotiate some business (he called it beez-ness) with a Turkish firm, and I need, um, advice?”

“Well, sorry, but I just got here myself and am not up on the business scene yet. Maybe you should try the English weekly, Business Turkey, for advice of that kind.” I made writing motions toward the waiter for my check.

Jean Le Reau leaned toward me across the table. “Ms. Darcy. I think you are a person to help us. I see you are in a hurry now, but perhaps we can meet later? Here is the number of my room. Call me, please?”

He was off, like Fred Astaire in one of those Paris movies. Something lingered in his wake. Not an aroma; more of an aura. Something that didn’t go with the pleasant, low-key exterior of Jean Le Reau.

Glancing at Le Reau’s card, I saw his room was two floors up from mine, on the fourth floor.