Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 23

CHAPTER 19

“…He leaves out half the words, and blots the rest.”

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

At the Pera Palas, I kicked off my shoes, pulled off most of my clothes, and lay on the bed, folders beside me. Just time for a nap before the meeting with Andover.

My eyes closed, but I couldn’t sleep. What had happened to Peter? Was I crazy to think someone had killed him? Was he murdered? I wasn’t sure I was ready to define my quest as a case of murder. My gut feeling was that Peter had not killed himself, either intentionally or not. And nobody but me seemed clear on that.

Peter’s materials. They must contain a clue. Through the tiredness, sharpened nerves provided a little energy. Sleepiness dropped away like a cloak. I got up and pulled out the files from the office.

In the file marked “Silver Wolves” I found notations in Peter’s almost illegible hand: “Aug. 7,” followed by “Tpkpi,” “Srkci,” and the query “Ahmet?”

A bit like a crossword puzzle. Topkapı Palace housed the old Sultans. Sirkeci Station was the train terminus on the European side of the Bosphorus—the end point once for the famed Orient Express from Paris. “Ahmet,” a common name in Turkey, could refer to anyone.

Peter’s scratched notes seemed to have been written in a moving vehicle: “Tpkpi,” again, then “Ҫengelköy.” Okay. One of the villages along the Asian side of the Bosphorus. A charming place. It would be a pleasure to check it out—if only I knew the object of my search.

Jet lag caught up with me. I must have dozed. Thuds from the carpeted hallway woke me. Heart lurching, I pulled myself from sleep to consciousness. Muted cacophony rose from the street below: the steady roar of motors stalled in traffic punctuated by horns and shouts from street vendors. “Aygaz!” Bottled gas. “Simit, simit!” Delicious, chewy, sesame-covered, bagel-like rolls. The calls soothed me.

The racket in the hall ebbed away. I cracked the door and caught a glimpse of a black uniform rounding the corner toward the elevator. Must be one of the staff.

I checked my watch. Yes, time to get ready. I dashed on lipstick and eye shadow and checked my green silk dress for wrinkles (which I found, but ignored). I glanced in the mirror to see if things were pulled together. In the low-wattage Pera lamplight, the green silk sort of matched my eyes. Everything looks better by lamplight, one of those truisms advancing age has taught me. Impression, not reality, is the more essential attribute. I grabbed my trench-coat and headed down to the lobby.

Even in the dim Victorian lighting of the Pera Palas lobby, I singled out Lawrence Andover. His sleek thinning blond diplomat hair, the immaculate raincoat over his arm, hat carried in his hand—above all, his lack of self-consciousness—gave him away.

When I stepped out of the fretted-iron elevator, Andover arose from a rose-velour stuffed armchair and came toward me. I got the full force of his personality.

I extended my hand. “Elizabeth Darcy…and you must be Lawrence Andover.”

“I am, indeed.” Andover’s gaze traveled over me from head to foot. More like a military inspection than a sexual appraisal. His eyes were light blue and friendly, but masked. Could he be a covert member of the CIA, known overseas as “The Company?” They’re trained to be hard to read.

Out in the autumn drizzle, we pulled our raincoats around us and waited for the gray diplomatic car called by Andover. A stone-faced Consulate driver sat behind the wheel. He looked like he doubled as a bodyguard.

“I thought we’d go to my place for drinks,” said Andover. “Is that all right with you? Do you have time?”

Under ordinary circumstances I don’t run off to a strange man’s house with him. Especially an attractive man. But Andover was a foreign service officer of my own country. A taste of home. Since we were going to Andover’s house, maybe he’d introduce me to other diplomats.

Never say no to an invitation on a journalistic assignment. All contacts can be useful.