Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 5

CHAPTER 1

Dear friends, listen to me now,

Love’s like the shining sun,

A heart without love

Is nothing more than a stone.

What rises up in a stony heart?

No matter how softly it begins,

The tongue’s soft words

Soon turn to war when poison spews.

Yunus Emre, 13th Century Turkish poet

1996

Lights flickered along the dark sides of the Bosphorus. Happy lights, he thought. He pictured romantic dinners in restaurants with lights down low. Parties of well-dressed guests from all nations nibbling on meze and drinking rakı. Making sophisticated jokes about politics. Gossiping. Good stuff for backgrounders, if not news. Grist for the reporter’s mill.

Peter Franklin was dressed for one of those parties—that one up there. From here he could see the gleaming crystal glasses, held by coiffed women and well-tailored men who had stepped out on the veranda for some Bosphorus night air.

If his mysterious contact arrived, he’d go, as planned. Parties always offered interesting contacts and possible networking. But opportunities to meet major players, like the one he awaited now, were far more rare and could not be ignored. The party would have to wait.

If his contact came. He was almost sure he knew who that would be.

Water lapped at the bottom of the boat and a ferry leaving Beşiktaş landing gave off a mournful toot.

The first bridge, strung like a necklace across the water, framed the distant domes and minarets of Süleymaniye, the greatest creation of the sixteenth-century architect Sinan. On a nearer point lay Topkapı Palace, eerie and quiet. Its lighted walls hid the secrets of centuries, of long-dead Sultans and their harems of women from all over the Empire.

Peter loved Istanbul. He loved its mosques, its alleys, its history. He loved its women and its cosmopolitan food. He soaked up its magic.

This story had become Peter’s baby. He’d taken months to weave the threads together. He would have his confirmation soon.

His small boat rocked on the wake of the Russian cargo ship passing in the night. The boatman kept the light off, as requested.

The other caique came slowly, silently, beside his boat, floating on the current.

Peter never had a chance.

The last sound he heard was the plaintive call to prayer from the historic mosque along the wharf.

Peter missed the party.