“For what it was worth. He thought it was mostly a waste of time-well, we all did.”
“Why Tommy? I mean, he volunteer for this?”
“When I asked him.” Frank looked at him. “I’m point desk for the Soviets.”
Leon stopped for a second, then caught up as they rounded the corner. “So Jianu-this was your operation?”
“I was briefed,” Frank said, careful, another distancing.
“Anyone else in Ankara? Sometimes things get overheard.”
“There was nothing to hear. All the details were up to Tommy. Time, drop-off. It’s procedure. Safer for him. The fewer people know.”
“No backup?”
“That would be for him to arrange.”
“But he didn’t,” Leon said, turning this over. “So he’d be the only one who knew.”
“But he wasn’t, was he?” Frank said. “And you’re not going to find him in there.” He gestured to the file in Leon’s hand. “Old war stories. He’s not in Ankara, either. He’s here.” He stopped. “Katherine.”
She was leaning against the desk, dressed for going out, high heels and a wide-brimmed hat, expecting sun, not Istanbul winter.
“There you are,” she said. “And I thought I was late.”
Frank looked at her blankly.
“For lunch?” she said, prompting. “The one you’re taking me to?”
“To tell you the truth-”
“You forgot and now you’re busy,” she said, sliding down off the desk, her skirt hiked up for a second, a flash of white slip.
Leon looked at her. A gray jacket open to a white silk blouse, bright lipstick that made the reddish hair seem darker. Green eyes, not a trick of the light.
“And then you’re back in Ankara and I’ll never get out, unless Barbara takes me.” She shuddered, for effect, then looked at Leon. “Why don’t you join us? The two of you can talk, and I’ll just sit there quiet as a mouse and nibble my cheese.”
“Can’t. Chained to my desk.” He gave a small tip of his head toward Frank, now cast as overseer. “Besides, there’s Lily’s party. I don’t want to run out of things to say.”
“You won’t. Not with Katherine,” Frank said, unexpectedly playful. “These people giving the party, they’re friends of yours? We have to be-”
“Lily runs Istanbul. The parties, anyway. Everybody’ll be there.”
“And no ambassadors,” Kay said. “For a change. I won’t have to be ‘representing my country.’”
“You’re always-” Frank started, about to be pompous, then caught himself. “Well, she’s dying to go.” He looked at her fondly. “You’d think it was your first party. All right, lunch. Just let me see the consul first.” He looked at his watch again. “Why don’t we go next door?”
“To the Pera? I can do room service myself.” She pulled a paper out of her purse. “Ginny gave me a list.” She turned to Leon. “You must know all these places. Troika?”
“Somewhere near,” Frank said.
Leon nodded. “Just a few blocks. Russian. You’ll enjoy it.”
“Fine, fine. Give me ten minutes,” Frank said, leaving.
Kay leaned back against the desk, the room suddenly quiet enough to hear the wall clock. An awkward silence, Leon fingering the folder, just standing. When he looked back up, her presence like a tug on his arm, he found her staring at him again, the way she had at the Pera. Another moment, still not talking, and then she looked away, breaking it. “Russian,” she said. “That’s funny. Here, I mean.”
“White Russian. Lots of them came in the twenties.”
“Another thing I didn’t know. More layers?”
“When you’re there, take a look up at the balcony. Two ladies knitting. Another one’s behind the cashier. They switch around. All blondes. Well, used to be.”
“They come every day?”
“To keep an eye on the place. It’s theirs. They were dancers. Then friends of Ataturk’s.”
“Friends?” she said, looking back at him.
“Mistresses,” he said, bowing.
“At the same time?”
He met her eyes, amused. “That I don’t know. But when he got tired of them, he set them up with the restaurant. So they’d have something. Or so the story goes.”
“Is that what they do here? I wonder if Frank would give me a restaurant when he gets tired of me.”
“Maybe he won’t.”
“No?” she said, then backed away. “Well, that’s lucky.” She picked up her purse. “How dressy is the party? What does Lily usually wear?”
“Something floaty.”
“Floaty.”
“You know, long and-floaty. Like a sari. I don’t know how else to describe it. She always seems to be floating through her parties.”
“That’s a help. So not the jersey. Maybe I’ll get some roller skates and we can float around together.”
Leon smiled. “You’ll be fine in anything,” he said, indicating the clothes she had on. “Whatever you like.”
“Only a man would say that.”
“Say what?” Frank said, coming back.
“That it doesn’t matter what you wear,” she said, suddenly jumpy, as if she’d been caught at something. “Ready?” She took his arm.
“It doesn’t. You always look nice.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s because you never look,” she said, teasing.
“Be careful with the Chicken Kiev,” Leon said. “The butter squirts.”
She raised her eyebrows, not sure whether he was making a joke, holding his glance for a second, then led Frank away.
Leon watched her go, not floating, high heels clicking across the parquet floor, legs long and sleek, pitched forward by the heels. Don’t ever wear skates. She must have once, a girl with freckles. Now it was high heels and soft blouses and a walk, something in the air. Marooned in Ankara, where Frank watched the Russians.
Leon looked down at the folder in his hand. A lot of trouble to go through to distance the ambassador. A Tommy he hadn’t known, the best of him. How do you weigh all the sides of someone? What had the Russians offered him? Money, an idea? But then there was also this, something he’d been proud of, according to Dorothy. The same man who’d tried to kill him at Bebek.
He took the folder back to his office and started reading through. What he’d been carrying on the train, history now. Still, why keep them locked away? The war was over. Or had Tommy simply forgotten about them? He read more, hoping to find something, but it was just what Dorothy and Frank had described, the Joint Committee, backdoor messengers, desperate trades.
He looked at the drawer. So why there? Why the bottle for that matter? Everyone knew Tommy liked a drink, hardly a secret. He opened the drawer. A few more files like the ones he’d read. He paged through. More of the same. He stared at the now empty drawer. Not the bottle, not the files, neither worth locking up. But nothing else there. He started closing the drawer. Maybe just another of Tommy’s Hardy Boys games, a man who used alphabet code. He stopped. Who played at hiding things.
He pulled the drawer all the way out and tapped a few places on the bottom then stopped, feeling silly. False bottoms? Not even Tommy. He felt along the sides and lifted the drawer off its runners, pulling it all the way out, feeling behind, then tipping it over.
The envelope was taped near the back, away from the runners so that it would clear the bottom frame when the drawer was opened. He pried one piece of tape away, then yanked at the rest. A consulate envelope, not even sealed. He took out two passports. The same picture Enver Manyas had used. In one, Tommy was Donald Price, Rhode Island, in the other, Kenneth Riordan, Virginia. Turkish entry stamps, no doubt Manyas again, but nothing else. He’d never left the country.
