Like during other moments of decision, though, Gavra flustered as the old man’s orders came back to him: Do not make contact, only follow.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Gavra loosened his grip on the wheel and let Mas pull farther ahead. He turned on the radio for comfort, and half-listened to pop music with lilting Arabic tones as they left town again. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel, trying to whistle with the tune, but found that it was always slightly different than he expected; it was unpredictable.
When he thought he’d finally gotten the melody down, Mas took the exit for Ataturk International Airport.
Gavra switched off the radio.
Mas carried his suitcase inside. He returned his keys to a car rental desk, then went to the small TisAir desk in the departures area. He bought a ticket and smiled at the heavyset Turkish woman who sold it to him, then walked through the security check to the gates.
Gavra approached the TisAir desk with his most winning smile. “Excuse me. I know you’re going to think this is rude, but you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
She blushed. “Well…well, thank you.”
“I bet this is an interesting job.”
She snorted. “I wish. ”
“People going all over the world, and you’re the one who puts them on the path. That’s not so bad.”
“But I stay here.”
“That may be true, but you meet the world through this desk. Like that man who just left. Where was he going?”
In the arrivals lounge, the earlier frustration had become misery. Women wept beside the mullein plant, and men shouted as if they’d just wrecked each other’s cars. A squealing mother gripped Gavra’s arm, but he shook her off, heading down the corridor to the door marked GUVENLIK. The guard nodded at him, but still refused to smile.
Brano was alone with the fat man. On a table, a reel-to-reel tape player sat inert as both men smoked. Brano said, “Anything on Mas?”
“He cleared out of his hotel room in the Pera Palas, and now he’s waiting for a flight back home.”
“He’s still in the airport?”
“Flight leaves in an hour.”
The fat man grunted and said in his heavy accent, “I can not make the sense of it.”
“Play it for him,” said Brano.
The fat man got up to leave. “You do it. I can not listen more.”
Once he was gone, Brano rewound the tape and pressed STOP. Then PLAY.
The voice that came out was staticky, speaking English. “…and this is an order, from the Armenian Diaspora across the planet, sufferers of the genocide at the hands of the Turkish imperialists, in solidarity with our freedom- loving comrades in Palestine and West Germany…”
“He’s reading it,” Gavra said.
“Shh.”
“…a hundred thousand in United States dollars and the release from United States prison of the revered Gourgen Mkrtich Yanikian.”
Then came another man’s voice, clearer: “We understand. Just give us some time. You have enough fuel to remain in the air for-”
“I know this! We know everything. The Armenian nation has-”
The tape squealed as Brano held down the fast-forward button. “A lot of dogma here.”
“Who’s Gourgen Yanikian?” Gavra asked.
“American citizen, Armenian descent. Two years ago he invited the Turkish consul general and the consul to lunch at the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara, California. He shot them both with a Luger. Killed them.”
“Right.”
“I suspect,” said Brano, “that these people are connected to the Prisoner Gourgen Yanikian Group.”
“I remember. Two months ago.”
“Yes, in February they committed two acts in Beirut. They tried to bomb the Turkish Information and Tourism Bureau-it went off while police tried to defuse it. Then they set off a bomb in the Turkish Airlines offices.”
“I thought the ASALA did that.”
Brano shrugged. “The Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia also claimed responsibility.”
“Too many names,” said Gavra.
“Listen to this.”
Brano pressed PLAY.
The hijacker was crying now, and through the sobs he spoke Turkish that Brano translated in his monotone. “She said it. She’s one of yours. Yes. Because she knows even more. She told me. How did she know?”
A click, then the other man said in English, “What did she say to you?”
“Just that…that…” Brano translated, then stopped because the voice had gone silent.
“Hello?” said the other man. “Are you still there? Come in, five-four.”
There was no reply. Brano stared hard at the machine. “That was the last transmission before the explosion. It occurred a couple of minutes later.”
“‘She’?”
“I don’t know.”
Gavra sank into a chair. “A suicide. Then why the demands?”
“That’s the question.”
“Then let’s talk to Mas.”
Brano stood up.
The fat Turk’s name was Captain Talip Evren, and he found a guard to walk them through the security check. Mas was at Gate 5 with thirty other travelers, reading an old copy of The Spark, a leg crossed over his knee.
“Ludvik,” said Brano.
Mas looked up, then smiled easily, losing the claustrophobia of before. “Brano. What are you doing in Istanbul?”
“I’d like to ask you the same thing.”
“It’s the nature of our business we seldom get answers.”
“You were always philosophical, Ludvik.”
“Who’s the kid?”
Gavra said, “Captain Gavra Noukas.”
“Noukas?” Mas bit his lip. “I’ve heard about you.”
Brano sat in the chair next to him. “You were waiting for someone. Now you’re going back home. That’s correct?”
“Well, your boy was following me, so I don’t suppose I should lie.”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Mas folded the newspaper into his lap and spoke with the patient confidence of a much older man. “Brano. Each of us has our orders, and we follow them. Yes, I was waiting for someone, but that someone didn’t arrive. I called my contact and learned what happened. It’s a tragedy, but the fact is that my job is now over. I’m going home. You’ll no doubt be asked to do the same.”
“How did your contact learn what happened?”
“My contact keeps his ear to the ground.”
A tone sounded, and a uniformed woman at a podium called, “Flight number 603-”
Mas stood. “Let the Turks take care of this. They have an admirable police force.” He shook Brano’s hand, then Gavra’s. His grip was sweaty. “Good to meet you, young man. And stick with Comrade Sev. He’s the best there is.”
That afternoon, Gavra sat at the Hotel Erboy’s small rooftop cafe, looking over the city while Brano used the telephone at the front desk. His vista included the mouth of the Golden Horn and thick-settled Beyo lu; in the
