Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 34

CHAPTER 30

She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

The atmosphere in Andover’s home was charming, both inside the old-fashioned windows and outside, where flickering lights had appeared in many places on the water. A laziness stole over me—maybe a combination of jet lag, rakı, and excellent food—and I yawned.

But I had to get back to work. Andover was still out of the room. I turned to Aslan.

“Tell me about being Kurdish in Turkey—you are Kurdish, I assume, since you come from the Southeast?—and how you have managed to succeed.” The rakı must be taking effect. I’d abandoned diplomatic skills. I didn’t actually take out a notebook and pen, but I’d remember crucial elements for future stories on Turkey’s most volatile minority, should Aslan choose to confide.

I received a sharp glance from my handsome companion at the bald-faced assertion that he must be a Kurd. But whether Aslan would have told me anything became a moot point when Andover re-entered the room. Picking up his drink, after checking to see if Aslan and I were still supplied, he draped himself artistically in a third armchair near where we sat looking out the windows. A huge tanker flying a lighted Turkish flag in front and the Russian flag aft made its ponderous way by.

“Now, Elizabeth. Tell us about yourself. How long have you worked for the Tribune? How well did you know Franklin?”

Andover’s fluid voice and face went well with the room. Had he decorated around himself? His eyes, as before, gave few hints of his thoughts.

Talk about myself, with Andover sitting there like a sphinx and Aslan’s impeccably-tailored legs crossed over each other? They’d get the abridged version.

“I’ve been at the Tribune for several years, since I stopped teaching journalism at George Washington University. I knew Peter well, of course. We worked together on several stories—and he was also my friend, as you know.” I left out the prize Peter and I had won for investigative reporting. But I wanted to keep the focus on Peter. “What can you tell me about his life here?”

I was rather proud of switching to offense. I didn’t intend to be interrogated. The diplomat’s appreciative gaze indicated he was aware of my tactic.

“Oh, Franklin was a loner,” he said. “We at the Consulate offered to help him out on occasion, but he usually preferred to go his own way. Ahmet Bey here, saw more of him socially than I did, I suspect.”

The legs uncrossed, and Aslan put his elbows on his knees. “Franklin had a good name as a journalist, so he was courted by influential people. I believe he was quite a man for the ladies, too—but I imagine you would know more about that, Ms. Darcy?”

Another change from defense to offense. I ignored the comment, as it richly deserved. And I didn’t think Peter had been a loner, either. I filed Andover’s comment in the back of my mind.

“What about the police report that he died of drugs?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound right to me.”

“A lot of Westerners, Europeans and Americans, get into drugs here, when they find out how readily available good stuff is,” murmured Andover. “Our consular section spends half its time visiting people in prisons who insist they’d never touched drugs until they came to Turkey.”

“Look, Lawrence.” There, I’d called him by his first name. I half-glanced at Aslan to see if he reacted. “You and I both know Peter wasn’t an innocent and wasn’t a criminal, either. I can’t see him jeopardizing his career for anything as stupid as drugs.” I bit around the pit of a black olive as I spoke. Aslan’s face had not adjusted its expression one iota.

“Well, maybe not.” Andover’s smile let me know he was teasing. “I agree with you. I like playing devil’s advocate.”

I gave him a grin.

At this point, Ahmet Aslan chimed in as he stood. “I never heard that Franklin took drugs. Doesn’t sound like him.”

Warmth bloomed behind my ribs. “My thoughts exactly!” Aslan, at least, seemed to believe as I did. Couldn’t tell about Andover.

Aslan held out his hand to Andover. “Much as I would like to stay, now I must leave for an appointment.”

I stood, too. I’d only been invited to drinks; it wouldn’t be right to stay longer.

Andover protested politely, but then courteously saw us both to the door. The butler stood there with an impassive expression and our coats. Andover held mine for me and turned to Aslan.

“Are you going her way or shall I call the car?” he asked.

With typical Turkish hospitality, Aslan offered me a ride to the ferry.

I had to admit I enjoyed the luxurious custom leather seats in the red BMW. In a few minutes we were at the Ҫengelköy wharf.

“Take a taxi on the other side,” Aslan said with a devastating smile. ”There are lots of them. And don’t pay more than six liras!”

Ahmet Aslan seemed a man who liked to take control. That never has and never will work with me.

“Certainly,” I said meekly. No harm in letting him think it had.