walks.
“Fourth?” Alexei said, genuinely impressed, a tourist. “They still use it?”
“Not anymore. Not for fifty years or so.”
“So nothing is forever.” He turned to Leon, a half smile. “But of course that’s why we’re here. The new order. Another one. Yours, this time.”
Leon drained his glass. “I have to go.”
“Let’s hope this one lasts for a while,” Alexei said, turning to glance again at the aqueduct. “I can’t change sides again. You’re the last.”
Leon looked at him for a moment. Not what he expected, not a rescue, one of ours, someone buying his life with betrayal.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you need anything?”
“Something to read maybe,” Alexei said, nodding to the emptyshelf. “Not even dominoes now. What should I do? Think about my sins? That’s what the priests used to recommend.”
“When was this?”
“When I was young.” He smiled. “Before I had any.”
“Lock up behind me,” Leon said, turning.
“One more thing? The gun?” He held out his hand.
“You’re safe here.”
“Then I’ll be safer. A precaution,” Alexei said, staring him down until Leon reached into his pocket and handed it over. “Thank you.” He looked at the gun, then around the room. “Very trusting, Americans. No guard.”
“You’re not a prisoner. You came to us, remember?” Leon said, improvising, a guess.
“What if I changed my mind?”
“Changed it to what?”
Alexei made a wry smile. “Not so many choices left, you mean. No,” he said to himself, then shrugged.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Alexei raised his head. “I’ll look forward to that.”
Outside, Leon crossed the street heading toward Süleyman’s Mosque, then ducked suddenly into a doorway catty-corner from the building. A few minutes, just to be sure. No one in the streets. He felt the same tingling, the caffeine alertness he’d felt on the quay. He should have arranged for someone to watch the building. But there hadn’t been any reason for that. Not a few hours ago. A simple pickup, justslipping someone in and out of the country, a kind of card trick. Not shoot-outs, someone lying in a pool of blood. Or carried away by now, tossed into the Bosphorus, another secret in the water.
Leon looked up at the lighted window, remembering Alexei’s face, wary and then tired, gone to ground. But there must have been other times, eyes confident, standing tall in his uniform. Romanian, it turned out, not Wehrmacht , whatever that looked like. Probably the same peaked hat, padded shoulders. Fighting alongside the Germans, all the way to Stalingrad. And now in the Russians’ crosshairs, Mihai taking the bullet instead. Luck just a matter of turning a few inches, a hand on the duffel where his head should have been. He thought of himself, flat on the damp concrete of the quay, waiting, afraid to breathe.
He moved away from the doorway, through the dark streets around the mosque, then the even darker ones below the Grand Bazaar, just an occasional light through shutters or a radio playing, streets as dark as they must have been when Valens was building his aqueduct. The timeless city, houses with bay overhangs, cobbles slick with peels and rinds. Leon had never been afraid on the streets in Istanbul, not even in the back alleys of neighborhoods like Fatih, full of headscarves and long stares, but tonight every movement, every faint rustling, put him on edge. In one street, two dogs raised their heads to watch him pass, some of Istanbul’s roaming wild dogs, fed on scraps.
He kept going east, through Cağaloğlu, where all the newspaper offices were. Had they heard about the shooting yet? Pages being made up, lines of type. Murder in Bebek. Mysterious shooting on the Bosphorus. No witnesses. Never suspecting the witness was outside their windows right now. Not just a witness, the killer. And looking at the swirl of lights down at Sirkeci, he knew the sudden shortness of breath, doubling over,
“Fourth?” Alexei said, genuinely impressed, a tourist. “They still use it?”
“Not anymore. Not for fifty years or so.”
“So nothing is forever.” He turned to Leon, a half smile. “But of course that’s why we’re here. The new order. Another one. Yours, this time.”
Leon drained his glass. “I have to go.”
“Let’s hope this one lasts for a while,” Alexei said, turning to glance again at the aqueduct. “I can’t change sides again. You’re the last.”
Leon looked at him for a moment. Not what he expected, not a rescue, one of ours, someone buying his life with betrayal.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you need anything?”
“Something to read maybe,” Alexei said, nodding to the emptyshelf. “Not even dominoes now. What should I do? Think about my sins? That’s what the priests used to recommend.”
“When was this?”
“When I was young.” He smiled. “Before I had any.”
“Lock up behind me,” Leon said, turning.
“One more thing? The gun?” He held out his hand.
“You’re safe here.”
“Then I’ll be safer. A precaution,” Alexei said, staring him down until Leon reached into his pocket and handed it over. “Thank you.” He looked at the gun, then around the room. “Very trusting, Americans. No guard.”
“You’re not a prisoner. You came to us, remember?” Leon said, improvising, a guess.
“What if I changed my mind?”
“Changed it to what?”
Alexei made a wry smile. “Not so many choices left, you mean. No,” he said to himself, then shrugged.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Alexei raised his head. “I’ll look forward to that.”
Outside, Leon crossed the street heading toward Süleyman’s Mosque, then ducked suddenly into a doorway catty-corner from the building. A few minutes, just to be sure. No one in the streets. He felt the same tingling, the caffeine alertness he’d felt on the quay. He should have arranged for someone to watch the building. But there hadn’t been any reason for that. Not a few hours ago. A simple pickup, justslipping someone in and out of the country, a kind of card trick. Not shoot-outs, someone lying in a pool of blood. Or carried away by now, tossed into the Bosphorus, another secret in the water.
Leon looked up at the lighted window, remembering Alexei’s face, wary and then tired, gone to ground. But there must have been other times, eyes confident, standing tall in his uniform. Romanian, it turned out, not Wehrmacht , whatever that looked like. Probably the same peaked hat, padded shoulders. Fighting alongside the Germans, all the way to Stalingrad. And now in the Russians’ crosshairs, Mihai taking the bullet instead. Luck just a matter of turning a few inches, a hand on the duffel where his head should have been. He thought of himself, flat on the damp concrete of the quay, waiting, afraid to breathe.
He moved away from the doorway, through the dark streets around the mosque, then the even darker ones below the Grand Bazaar, just an occasional light through shutters or a radio playing, streets as dark as they must have been when Valens was building his aqueduct. The timeless city, houses with bay overhangs, cobbles slick with peels and rinds. Leon had never been afraid on the streets in Istanbul, not even in the back alleys of neighborhoods like Fatih, full of headscarves and long stares, but tonight every movement, every faint rustling, put him on edge. In one street, two dogs raised their heads to watch him pass, some of Istanbul’s roaming wild dogs, fed on scraps.
He kept going east, through Cağaloğlu, where all the newspaper offices were. Had they heard about the shooting yet? Pages being made up, lines of type. Murder in Bebek. Mysterious shooting on the Bosphorus. No witnesses. Never suspecting the witness was outside their windows right now. Not just a witness, the killer. And looking at the swirl of lights down at Sirkeci, he knew the sudden shortness of breath, doubling over,
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