worse than the other.
“No matter what you have to do. Who gets killed.”
Altan shrugged. “It’s not a perfect world. For whom are you in mourning?”
Leon looked away. “No one.”
Everyone disposable, as he’d been, Tommy’s gun firing at him.
“Good,” Altan said, coming back from the window. “It’s important in this work-to keep a clear head.” He picked up the briefcase and put it on the table to open it. “It’s been interesting, watching you. I didn’t think you could do it. So many complications. But no, good instincts. You are-resourceful. Impossible to train someone for that. My only concern was this weakness-it’s a mistake to form a personal attachment. Trusting a man like Jianu. Of course he’d take advantage, try to escape. That was sloppy. But in the end you did what you had to do. So you learn from that.”
Leon looked up, another story.
“You know I killed him.”
“So Gulun said. I confess, I was relieved. I didn’t know if you were hard enough to-”
“That’s not why.”
“No? Well, it comes to the same thing.” He pulled out a paper. “For the Americans.”
“What’s that?”
“Your statement. How they killed each other.”
“Why are you doing this? What difference does it make to you?”
“If the Americans knew, how it really was, they’d never trust you again. This way, who knows, they might give you a medal.”
“I don’t want a medal.”
Altan nodded. “Or a job, either. They’ll offer you one, I think. Here, sign. But you’re finished with all that. Reasons of health, maybe,” he said, touching his chest.
“Finished?” Leon said, waiting for the rest.
“You can’t serve two masters. You might be tempted to play them off against each other.”
“Two.”
“I need to trust my people.”
“Your people.”
“People who work for me. I think it’ll be good, the two of us.” He held out a pen. “Sign it.”
Leon stared at him, the soft click of a lock turning in his head. “And if I don’t?”
“My friend, you don’t want to put that gun in your hand. Everything changes. For you. It starts all over again. On both sides. And this time, you’re Jianu. We have better things to do.” He gestured again with the pen.
“What makes you think I’d ever do that? Work for you?”
“Leon, the best warriors the Ottomans ever had were the Janissaries. All foreign born. All loyal. They served the empire.” He looked over. “And the empire served them.”
“They were slaves.”
“Only in a manner of speaking. Chains of self-interest would describe it better. Golden chains. You are the perfect Janissary.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“No? There are other statements here,” he said, reaching in and pulling out some papers. “For another file, I thought. Somewhere safe. The fisherman’s. What happened at Bebek? Jianu can no longer tell us. Now there’s only you. If a judge believes you.” He pulled out more paper. “Gulun’s other statement. So puzzling. What reason could you possibly have for shooting Jianu? Self-defense? A man lying there, without a gun? Of course other statements can be arranged. From people on the bridge. So there’s no doubt. Now two men killed. Bebek, the bridge. Think how many stories we could make up to link them. Perhaps you have one of your own. But the facts will be that you were there, both places, and killed both men.” He stopped. “Leon. Even with bad choices, there are worse choices.”
Leon stared down at the paper, the one that said he hadn’t done anything at all, a story of good intentions.
“I’m not a traitor.”
“Yes, I know. The good patriot. Leon, we want the Americans to protect us. I don’t ask you to work against them.”
“Just what people say at parties?” Leon said, sarcastic.
“Well, the foreign community. It’s true, we like to have ears there. But they’re leaving Istanbul. The war’s over. We’re not-” A second, looking for the word. “Strategic anymore. If only the Russians would go too. But no, so we need other ears. Their Turkish friends. Some of them you already know. Friends of Georg. What do they say to them? A foreigner who speaks Turkish-a valuable asset. An American working for me? No Turk would ever suspect. And resourceful. Think of it this way. It’s what you would do for the Americans. Except you do it for me. Unofficial. The way you like to work.” He paused, the air still. “For me. But not against them. You have my word.”
“Your word,” Leon said, almost laughing.
“Yes, my word,” Altan said, nodding to the papers. “Not Gulun’s. Not the fisherman’s. None of them. Mine. You have that. So you see. What a perfect Janissary arrangement it will be. We will have an obligation to each other. Sign, please.”
Leon took the pen.
“And now you should rest,” Altan said, glancing at his watch, then at Leon as he wrote, a hasty scribble, his head down, as if he didn’t want anyone to see. “Obstbaum will be angry with me. Would you like help? To the bed?”
“No.”
Altan put the statement in the briefcase. “So. We understand each other? You know, I’m looking forward to this.” He began moving to the door. “One thing,” he said, stopping. “You don’t mind? A personal curiosity. Who did shoot Mr. King?”
Leon said nothing for a second. How long ago had it been? Then he met Altan’s eyes.
“I did.”
Altan tilted his head a little, surprised. “You,” he said. “But why?”
“Self-defense.”
Altan started to smile, as if Leon had said something clever, then rolled his eyes, a genial salute. “Of course. Self-defense.” He nodded, leaving. “It’s as Lily says. An Istanbullu.”
Later, lying in bed, he looked for a wall clock and realized he had entered Anna’s timeless world. There were no hours at the clinic, no days, each the same as before, all continuous. Thoughts came out of sequence, at random, with no purpose beyond themselves, unless you tried to follow them. He had been thinking of the blue tiles at the Cinili Camii, the way they shaded into turquoise and gray, and he wondered if he was really thinking about Kay, or just the perfect peace of the courtyard that day, sitting near the fountain, Kay telling him he could never really belong here. Asking questions. For Frank. But at some point she had stopped. Maybe even that day. He would have known, felt it when they’d gone back to Laleli. It was important to remember, that she had stopped.
Maybe the night of the party, when things changed, watching him with Georg. He saw the round face again, shiny with sweat and fear, apologizing. The last thing he did in his life, too late to change. But did anyone? Even given the chance? He saw other faces, Barbara and Ed, touched by death and going on as before, and he saw how it would be for him, back to days at the office, furtive Thursdays with Marina, drinks at the Park, the nightly brandy at Cihangir with his war memorial of photographs, all the same, except for the meetings with Altan, the deceit that would give an edge to all the rest, then eat away at it until nothing else was left. Visits to Anna with nothing to say because everything in his life was now secret, even from her.
He swung out of bed, backing against it until he was no longer dizzy, then took hold of the IV rack and moved it with him. In the hall, just the dim night-lights and soft, sibilant Turkish coming from the nurses’ station, something about the supervisor changing their shifts, ordinary life. He had put on slippers and now slid quietly over the waxed linoleum. At the end, Anna’s room had the usual light near the floor, some moon coming through. She opened her
