heart was beating at a steady and even pace, but it was beating in a body that no longer cared, with a mind that was no longer there. Being Meq, she had somehow survived the nuclear blast, yet she had been burned and blown to a place from which she never came back. Zuriaa was most likely insane long before Nagasaki, and she had committed many heinous acts in her lifetime; however, Opari could not let her continue to exist as she was and be used and abused like a laboratory rat. Kanporurrike was the only answer. Opari bent down and picked up the scalpel from the floor. She whispered “Please forgive me” into Zuriaa’s ear, then sliced her throat as quickly and cleanly as she could. She watched the blood pooling on the floor and held Zuriaa’s hand until her heartbeat weakened and fell silent. Opari closed her eyes and kissed her once on the lips. She turned and stepped over the two men and walked out of the building. When she was clear of the oak trees, she broke into a run and within seconds was over the fence. Sam Liang was waiting with the engine running and they headed off in darkness toward San Diego and the train station. Early the next day, he was on his way back to San Francisco and Opari was on board a train bound for St. Louis.
When she finished her story, total silence filled the room. There was one fact that none of us could deny or avoid, and it was on everyone’s mind. Zuriaa, with all her madness and misconduct, was still Ray’s sister. Meq brothers and sisters are rare, and the bond between them is much stronger than the bond between Giza siblings, even if one of them has gone astray. I watched Ray carefully. He sat staring straight ahead without any expression, but I knew in his mind he was reliving those long-ago moments and events that only he and Zuriaa had shared. For a full minute no one said a word. Then Ray was the first to speak. He cleared his throat and said, “You did right, Opari. You did what needed to be done. I’d have done the same thing if I’d been there. I never heard of Kanporurrike, but I’d have done the same thing.”
“Ray is correct,” Sailor added. “Now you must let it go, Opari. There is no shame or guilt in your actions.” Sailor turned to face Jack. “I am concerned about this Blaine Harrington.”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck and said, “You should be more concerned about Valery, Sailor. All of you should. He is much more dangerous than Blaine Harrington.”
“In what respect?”
“He is smart, he is unpredictable, and he has a network of agents worldwide.” Jack paused and looked at me. “This is an alarm bell, Z. I think all of you need to disappear for a while. Tell me how I can help and Cardinal and I will arrange it.”
I glanced around the kitchen at each of the others, then Sailor said, “Get us to Istanbul, Jack. From there, we shall ‘disappear.’ ”
One week later Jack called from Washington to say we’d hit the jackpot in lucky timing. A cultural exchange sponsored by the State Department and involving nearly a hundred children was leaving the United States for Turkey in less than three days. Jack said he could insert us into the group. Blending in with a hundred children would enable the six of us to travel together without arousing suspicion. And by coincidence, Cardinal was in Tel Aviv attending an international medical symposium, which also served as cover for his other activities. Cardinal could easily meet us in Istanbul and supply us with anything we might need. It was an excellent plan and we all agreed immediately.
“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little good luck,” Ray said.
Carolina protested and complained about our leaving, especially mine, but I knew that would pass soon enough. She had a baby in the house again. Nothing had ever made her happier than the sound of babies and children in her home. This time, she could even think of her sister whenever she whispered the baby’s beautiful name, “Georgia.”
Willie Croft did us a big favor and volunteered to fly us to Washington, D.C., in his de Havilland, and we left St. Louis the next day. Jack was waiting for us at the airport. He escorted us to New York by train, where we boarded our ship in plenty of time. Before wishing us farewell, Jack made all the proper arrangements and introductions, and that evening, accompanied by several loud blows of the horn, we set sail at 9:00 P.M. sharp.
Opari and I had not seen each other in eighteen years, yet during the voyage we spoke very little, although we were never outside each other’s presence for more than a few minutes. When we were able to be on our own, we walked the decks of the ship, smelling the salty air, watching the ocean and the stars at night, oblivious to everything but the moment. I kissed her eyelids and she kissed the palms of my hands. I slept well, dreamed little, and woke each morning to find her next to me. My Ameq — my love, Opari.
On the morning of April 13, 1954, we entered the harbor of Istanbul, sailing slowly past the Hagia Sophia. High on the hill, surrounded by minarets and spires, and framed against a cloudless blue sky, it was majestic and magnificent, exactly as the Emperor Justinian wanted it to appear fourteen centuries earlier.
“There lies our letter box, with directions from Geaxi inside, no doubt,” Sailor said.
“Letter box?” I asked.
“Designed and installed secretly for our use in 537 by Isidore of Miletus.”
“Who was he?”
“A friend of ours, and also one of the two designers of the Hagia Sophia.”
We disembarked along with all the children in the entourage, staying on the back edge of the group and keeping a close watch for Cardinal. He appeared almost at once. He was talking with a Turkish customs agent and showing him a clutch of papers in his hand. Now in his sixties, Cardinal wore a dark business suit, and his thick black hair was streaked with silver, but he still reminded me a great deal of his brother, Sak. Once he saw us approaching, he pointed to us, and within minutes we were separated from the others and led through the crowd by the customs agent. Cardinal looked at me as we were walking out. He winked and said, “Welcome to Istanbul, Zianno.”
Waiting for us in his tour bus was Kerem, a gap-toothed man with deep creases in his face and large brown eyes that seemed to smile even when he wasn’t smiling. Cardinal referred to him as “my man in the street.” Kerem’s tour bus was painted bright blue and gold outside and lined inside with multicolored fringe and tassels, tiny hanging brass bells and cymbals, and dozens of faded portraits of the founder of modern Turkey, Mustafa Kemal, better known as Ataturk.
We were driven through crowded and chaotic streets to a small hotel only a few blocks from the Tokapi Palace called the Empress Zoe. It was quiet and clean and easily within walking distance of the Hagia Sophia. Sailor decided to wait until the next day before checking on the “letter box.” In the evening, Kerem took us to his favorite restaurant, where we ate a long and delicious meal and listened to his stories in broken English about the mysteries of Istanbul, and there were many. Cardinal said Kerem seemed to know everyone in the city, if not personally, then through a friend, a cousin, or an uncle. At one point, he suddenly stopped talking and stared hard into Ray’s eyes. He looked concerned and slightly afraid. “Your eyes are much green,” he said. “Do you possess the
Ray glanced around the table at each of us. “I don’t think so. What is it?”
“The evil eye,” Kerem said. “In Turkey, green eyes are much dangerous for the
Ray told Kerem he had nothing to worry about and turned to me. He winked. “Did you hear that, Z? You better be on your best behavior or I just might zap you with the evil eye.” Everyone laughed out loud, even Kerem, after he realized it was a joke. Finally, we returned to the hotel and our rooms. It felt good to lie down and spend the night in a comfortable bed curled up next to Opari.
Sailor woke me the next morning and the two of us left for the Hagia Sophia while the others waited at the hotel. He led the way through narrow, noisy alleys, past open windows and the smell of mutton and vinegar. I heard at least three different languages being spoken in the streets. Sailor never said a word, and we arrived at the southwestern entrance only minutes after they had opened the doors. Visitors and tourists were already spread throughout the cavernous old church and mosque. As we walked in, Sailor said, “The last time I was here, the air was filled with incense and smoke.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“A thousand years ago,” he said, glancing in all directions.
“Exactly a thousand?”
“Exactly.”
Sailor said the letter box was in an upper enclosure, a central gallery called the “Loge of the Empress.” It
