Istanbul Passage

in black, to make everything clear. Instead there were water salesmen with silver canisters strapped to their backs and hamals wheeling carts and a simit peddler with a tray of bread rings balanced on his head.

Leon felt the gun in his pocket. Not something you’d want to use in a crowd, just in case. In case what? They had to shoot their way back? Altan had never said, but now that they were here Leon knew. Alexei would recognize Melnikov, not a stranger, and might have to be persuaded to keep going, prodded forward. Maybe even shot if he tried to bolt. In the foot, a knee, somewhere to keep him alive for Melnikov. The gun was for Alexei.

And Melnikov would have his own, ready to use on the other side, his man unsuspecting too until the final minute. Maybe until he recognized Leon. Someone who’d killed Frank and would kill again, meanwhile betraying them all to the Soviets. There were two people in this trade, not just Alexei. A frontier justice, maybe the only kind there ever was. Think of it as bringing someone to trial.

“What kind of car?” Alexei said. “American?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t say. In front of the mosque, that’s all.”

Each step a foot closer. His eyes darted over the fishermen lining the rail, waiting for one of them to turn his head as they passed, not a fisherman. What it must feel like hunting, preparing to kill, a lion watching the grass.

They were on the Horn side of the bridge, traffic coming from behind. Maybe a burst of gunfire from a passing car. The Russians were capable of anything, any deceit. But all he saw were taxis on their way to Sirkeci. Don’t look back, Alexei sure to notice. So far not even wary, trusting the car to be there, trusting Leon. Everything as planned. Then why the dismay, this constriction in his chest, Leon feeling that it was he who was being brought to trial. Betraying, Alexei had said, gets easier. Leon glanced over. Now eager, almost boyish, what he must have looked like in Bucharest.

Leon scanned the crowd up ahead. Maybe a quarter of the way across now, Melnikov here soon. I think you may be surprised. Some teenage boys ran out of the stairway from the restaurant level below. Where he and Kay had had lunch, looking at minarets, Ed embarrassed to stumble on them. Years ago.

How many times had he walked across this bridge, feeling lucky to be here? Now, a shiver, he sensed everything was about to change. Even in this half-light things seemed sharper, as if they knew he’d have to remember them, be asked about them one day. And what would he say? I was outside. Listening. He glanced over at Alexei again. A head snapped on a bathroom floor because it was in the way. I’m not you. A wave of panic rose in his throat, like bile. I’m not you. But everything now set in motion, Melnikov already somewhere in the sea of heads coming toward them. The simit man was back, partly blocking the view. Leon leaned a little to his left.

And saw the hat. The same floppy brim she’d worn at Tommy’s service, just in from Ankara. Not sure if it was proper to smoke in the street. Later, shy against the window light. Walking now with Melnikov. No. He kept moving. Kay raised her head, looking into the crowd. Looking for him? Or for some story Melnikov had made up to put her at ease? Part of him visible now, just over her right shoulder, as if she were a kind of shield to use before he threw her away. Someone in Ankara. The Russian desk. No. Leon hearing her voice, not the traffic, everything she had ever said, almost dizzy with it. Any of it real? None of it? Still coming toward them.

“What is it?” Alexei said, alert, a scent in the wind.

“Nothing,” Leon said, his voice hollow, emptied out.

Nothing. Wrong about everything. Walking, unable to stop. A life can change in a second and never be the same. A hand sliding away in the water. A shot fired on a quay. More voices, then Altan’s on the terrace. You have to think what’s important to you. Meaning something else. But what was? Not even a second, less, and everything changed forever. One more, and he would be them. Not an accidental killer. One of them. Twisting necks, throwing people away. Maybe he already was, the second already passed. Alexei not seeing them yet, wondering what kind of car it would be.

“No,” Leon said out loud, not even bothering to lower his voice.

Alexei turned to him, all attention, head up. A twig snapping in the woods.

“Don’t. Don’t look. Listen.” Quick, his mind racing. The others still coming. “It’s a trap. See the stairs?” Just ahead, no more than a minute at this pace. He took out the gun and slipped it into Alexei’s pocket, a thief’s movement. “Give me the duffel.” One hand over the other, then only Leon’s. “When I say, head for the stairs. After that-”

“Run,” Alexei said, finishing it.

“I’m sorry,” Leon said, the word not big enough.

“And you?”

But there was no time, not for an answer, anything. Almost at the stairs.

“Ready?” Leon said, lifting the bag. “Now.”

He pushed into the simit peddler, a shove with the duffel. The man pitched forward, teetering, the tray sliding off and spilling simits into the crowd, away from the stairs. Noises of surprise, everyone looking, then rushing to help the man, a general swarming. Leon looked up, Kay seeing him now, Melnikov coming from behind, his gaze to Leon’s right, past the commotion to the blur of Alexei running away. Alexei stopped, recognizing him, then looked back to Leon, mouth open, moving pieces. A second, just long enough for Melnikov to raise his gun and fire. A sharp, clanging noise, the bullet hitting iron, then shrieks, sounds of panic, the simits scattered again as people ran for cover. Another shot as Alexei disappeared down the stairs. Melnikov started running, pushing Kay aside, everyone scattering, ducking against the bridge railing. When he reached the stairs, he glanced over at Leon, panting, his face almost a snarl, before he plunged down.

From below Leon could hear screams, shouts of protest, people being shoved. He remembered the crowds shopping, lined up for the restaurants. Another trap. Why had he sent him there? But where else could he have gone? A head start, at least, a minute to save himself.

Melnikov’s men raced after him to the stairs. Leon swiveled his head. Gulun’s men, invisible before, were rushing down from the Karakoy side. Bottling him up. Leon imagined downstairs, women crouching, men yelling, Alexei running toward the freedom of Eminonu, seeing Melnikov’s men coming down. Frantic, back and forth, the stalls a maze. Batteries and shoes and toys, knocked to the floor as people were crushed against them. Another shot, the sound different.

The bridge was still emptying, people hurrying to the ends, afraid now of being caught in any cross fire. A tram, unaware, had begun to lumber across and a few people ran over to it, hanging onto the side. Kay stood, still looking at Leon, her face bewildered, jumping when she heard the shot below. What was she seeing now? Before? Wrong about everything.

She looked behind her, a quick check, then moved toward Leon, another woman following, not a Turk, western dress. Someone Leon knew but couldn’t recognize, out of place. And then, even more confused, he did. Dorothy Wheeler. Who knew where all the files were, what Frank must have found. Who’d been walking behind Kay, next to Melnikov. I think you may be surprised. More shots from below, coming from both ends, as if they were firing at each other.

Then suddenly Alexei was at the top of the far stairs, a backtracking maneuver, his head poking up like a rabbit out of its hole, no, a fox, eyes desperate and calculating, trying to outrun the hunt. He looked around, the road almost empty, traffic stopped at either end, and started back to Karakoy, sprinting, wiry arms pumping as he came toward them. Leon could almost feel the surge of adrenaline, faster. Not far, a minute of luck, that’s all. But the fox never won. Leon saw that the bridge was like a broad open field without cover, an illusion of escape. He hadn’t saved Alexei, he’d only given him a head start to be killed. But at least running, all anyone could really hope for, a running start.

“Leon.” Kay, heading toward him too. Dorothy had disappeared. “Thank God.”

“Stoi! Jianu!”

The blast of a shot, Melnikov firing from the top of the stairs, more screams from the railing. Alexei turned, looking back over his shoulder, catching a second shot in his chest. The force of it almost spun him around, his body slumping over, then forcing itself back up, the last ninth life, just enough strength to lift his gun. Hand shaking, trying to keep the shot from going wild. Leon pushed Kay to the ground, covering her.

“Stay down.” Sounding like someone else, hoarse.

Another crack in the air from his right. He heard Melnikov grunt, then yelp, surprised, and looked up. The eerie