and the occasional beggar demands things with open hands. It’s five o’clock, and the low-lying sun at the end of the street makes me flush.
“Madam,” says a shriveled old man. “You are lost?”
I shake my head and turn away.
“Can I be of assistance, perhaps? Show you Istanbul?”
I give him my Militia stare. The one where you momentarily separate from your body and display the full force of your scorn. “Leave me alone.”
It works as well here as it does back home-the old man moves on-but the Militia stare is only a facade. I’m having trouble focusing on the faces in the street. What would Aron do now? We’ve traveled together to Krakow and the Black Sea, and he knows how to take care of me when I stumble like this.
He would put his arm around my shoulders and guide me to a cafe where the time could settle down again. Blurred faces surge toward me, and I know that if Peter Husak comes I won’t even see him.
I step into the carpet shop to catch my breath, but suddenly two salesmen are on me. “The lovely madam, so very proud we are that such a lovely madam is interested in our carpets!”
I rub my face. “No.”
“Original Turkish, handwoven. Touch!”
“A taxi,” I say. “Please. Just call a taxi for me.”
Gavra
Brano drove him back to the Metropol to retrieve his car. They rode in silence until Gavra cleared his throat. “There’s something wrong with this.”
“I know,” said Brano. “There’s a lot wrong with this.”
“Then what are you doing about it?”
Brano turned up Yalta Boulevard. “It’s best you’re kept in the dark, Gavra. I know you don’t like this, and despite what you may believe, I don’t enjoy keeping things from you. But I am working on it.”
“Tell me about Ludvik Mas.”
Brano took a breath. “He used to be like you, Gavra. Some years ago I brought him into the Ministry. He was young, intelligent, and eager to please. But he was also desperate for power. I didn’t see that; it’s my fault. Once I realized my error, it was too late. He had gone over my head-and against my orders-when he set up Room 305. This office began with the operation you’ve just heard about, a fraud around parapsychology, but has since expanded considerably. The Lieutenant General calls it ‘Disruption Services,’ because its various operations also work to disrupt capitalist countries’ internal workings. Often by funding dissident groups.”
“Like terrorists.”
Brano nodded. “Once Ludvik had set it up, under the protection of the Lieutenant General, I could do nothing to stop him.”
“So you disagree with the operation.”
“Like I said, I told him not to begin it. It’s always been my belief that the Ministry should not be involved in the haphazard murder of foreign agents. But others above me felt differently.”
He parked behind Gavra’s car and turned off the engine, then stared out the windshield at the opaque windows of the Hotel Metropol. “Gavra,” he said, “I want you to be very careful. I don’t trust that Mas won’t try something again, and you’ll be in danger. He knows as well as I do that you’re a homosexual, and for that reason he places little value on your life. He’s that kind of person.”
Gavra felt as if his chest were being squeezed. His vision was fuzzy. “You know?”
Brano surprised him by patting his knee. “Of course I know. And I knew that was no girl in your bed back in Istanbul. My only concern is that you keep such things quiet. You can’t afford to be…” He paused, as if the next word were not part of his vocabulary: “Flamboyant. It could ruin your career. Or worse.”
Gavra was at first unable to think of a reply, but then it occurred to him. “Thank you, Comrade Sev.”
Brano placed his hands on the wheel again. “It’s nothing, Gavra. Though I do suggest you avoid becoming involved with Adrian Martrich.”
“Of course.”
“But watch him. Make sure Katja stays away. This doesn’t need to spread any further than it already has.”
“Yes, comrade.” Gavra opened the door and climbed into the hot sunlight.
He returned to find Katja and Adrian in the living room, drinking cans of Zipfer beer. Katja was in a state. She was pulling at her hair, making it dirty, and when she noticed Gavra she spoke with an unfocused voice. “Okay, you can tell me now.”
“What?” Gavra asked as innocently as he could manage.
She pointed at him. “Everything.”
Adrian shrugged at his questioning glance.
She said, “I don’t appreciate being left in the dark. You’ve been meeting with a man named Peter Husak, correct?”
“I don’t know who that is,” said Gavra.
Katja stood, the beer in her hand. “Either you tell me what’s going on, or I’m walking out of here right now, and you can take care of this yourself.”
Perhaps it was Brano Sev’s half-remembered training coming back, but Gavra became hard at that moment. His jaw tensed, squaring his face. He said, “I can’t tell you. If you want to leave, then fine.”
Katja walked over to him and emptied the rest of her beer on his shirt. Before leaving, she said, “Sorry about the floor, Adrian.”
“No problem,” said Adrian.
Peter
Seven years later, with a new life, a family, a position and a new name, Peter sat at an outdoor cafe table between the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia, on Mimar Mehmet Aga Caddesi. He did not like Istanbul. It was unbearably hot, packed with the unwashed wretches of Islam, and the noise-what they generously called “music”- was inescapable. Even the mornings were filled with mournful muezzins who climbed their minarets and moaned wobbly prayers for the whole city to suffer through. And this was the city where, eight days ago, he’d stood in the airport waiting for a plane that would never arrive, wondering if its absence marked the end of his career.
He’d arrived badly, of course. A rough flight followed by a swarthy taxi driver who charged him three times the going rate to get to the Sultan Inn, then a hot room that opened onto the noise and stink of Mustafa Pasa, allowing him no sleep.
But his career had not ended-not yet-because he’d recovered swiftly, explaining to the Comrade Lieutenant General that the entire Rokosyn operation would be cleaned up, and soon. That was why he was here. It would be as if the operation had never existed, and the other departments of Disruption Services could continue unabated.
And the old man, always a sucker for easy solutions, only told him, Just clean it up fast. Had the Lieutenant General known what he knew about Zrinka Martrich, and how the Armenians ended up on her plane, he would have said something entirely different.
Up the street, a tablah — and- buzuq street duo made terrible sounds, and Peter felt again that all this could be dealt with, were it not for the music. That incessant, moronic percussion and those tinny, agonizing strings doing their best to remain out of tune. All in praise of fat, coin-adorned belly dancers.
The sweating man at the table with him-another fat one-no doubt loved all the chaos. That music was made for him. Like the music, this Turk lacked any trace of subtlety. After shaking Peter’s hand, he patted the table and spoke in his heavily accented English. “So you have it? The money?”
