Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 8

CHAPTER 4

Already I was being handed from arkadash to arkadash, that word for friendship, one of the most important words in the Turkish language.

Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections

The ferry passed Rumeli Hisar, that great fortress built by Mehmet the Conqueror in 1452. Its stone walls formed an asymetric pattern on the hill. Grass inside the walls was turning yellow for the winter.

When I thought of Peter, my insides felt both asymmetric and yellow. I hoped this ferry ride would clear my jet-lagged brain on where to start. .

Peter’s body must have stayed near the water’s surface or it never would have been found under that veranda in Ortaköy. And it must have entered the Bosphorus near the restaurant. From the north, the Black Sea side.

The currents of the Bosphorus run deep. On top they flow north to south, from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara. Far below the surface, the water goes the other way—a self-cleansing cycle. Except things kept going into it.

Like Peter’s body. A shudder started at the back of my neck and ran down my spine.

I hardly looked at Macho-Man-with-the-music as I made my way into one of the ferry’s comfortable sitting rooms. But I had to pass him, and I could swear he leaned out to make sure I’d bump him as I tried to slip past.

Whether he was trying to attract or repel me, it was un-Turkish to invade my space like that. Accosting foreigners is looked down on, too. “Ayıp,” they say. Shameful.

As I passed him, I looked straight at the man. His eyes were singularly opaque. I couldn’t read them. He was looking at me but not interested in me. As a person, I was erased.

Feeling as though I’d brushed against evil, I sat beside a fresh-faced young woman wearing the traditional Islamic head scarf, the jilbab. She was one of the few women on the boat wearing one, but seemed as self-possessed as the others.

Since this was Turkey rather than the Arabian Peninsula, the pink jilbab was color-coordinated with the girl’s long-sleeved khamis worn over modest slacks. Not an inch of skin appeared between bottom hem and shoes, but her attractive femininity showed through. I felt a sisterly kinship and we gave each other warm smiles. The chill I’d experienced from the Camel man began to thaw.

I savored a tulip-shaped glass of sweet mahogany-colored Turkish tea bought from a man carrying a swinging tray shouting, “chai, chai!” My new-found friend in the jilbab had one, too. I viewed her as an ally against the big rude guy outside. Turkish women have devastating put-downs for men who get out of line. They turn them into little boys with a flick of the apron string.

Just before we docked, I thought perhaps she’d be called on to defend me. I saw a leather jacket in the opposite row. The dramatic profile. The man in the leather jacket was no longer looking away from me.

He had me in the crosshairs of his eyes.

Past the exiting crowd, the charming scene of Galata Tower from the ferry disappeared in a cloud of dark smoke belched out by our engines. Through that black haze, Istanbul no longer felt like the safe haven I’d always viewed it.

Somewhere behind me, haunting music followed. Too afraid to turn around, I got the message. My tracker wanted me to know he was there.