Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 17

CHAPTER 13

The old-feeling neighborhood climbing up a hill from the Golden Horn into the New District is called Galata, and has a seedier, less-modern-European ambience than Taksim Square or Istiklal Street.

Rick Steves’ Istanbul

In the hotel lobby I greeted the young, self-important-but-rather-sweet Tribune assistant who had met me at the airport the day before. Bayram Çengel, dark eyes aglow, sat on the wine-colored plush of an uncomfortable fake Louis XIV lobby chair.

“Hi, Bayram,” I said, gripping my briefcase tightly to avoid further disasters. “I’m ready to see the Tribune office.” Gentleman that he was, he offered to carry the briefcase, which I gave him gladly.

On the sidewalk outside the hotel, under the faded Pera canopy, Bayram shouldered aside the doorman to help me into the taxi to Cağaloğlu, the office address. He might be junior to me in the office; he was senior to the doorman and needed to make that clear.

The taxi waited while a small blue car inched past us in the narrow street. Glancing at the obstruction, I saw a Murat driven by a man both remarkable and familiar. He had curly black hair, a luxuriant mustache, and a hawk-like profile. On the seat beside him was a clean-shaven young man whose long eyelashes rested on olive-toned cheeks. Lashes any woman could envy.

“Could be a Greek god,” I murmured. But no; no Turk wants to be called a Greek, even god-like. “Okay, a Hittite god.” Had the central Anatolian Hittites had multiple gods?

Wait. I’d seen that mustachioed driver before. Yesterday, he had worn a leather jacket and been on my Bosphorus ferry.