Istanbul Passage

repeat of the Struma, the ship sent back, then torpedoed in the Black Sea, everyone down with it. One survivor, they’d heard.

So the decision was made, a desperate run through the Marmara, a moonless night like this one that made them hope they could slip through. Mihai’s decision. No, both; Anna’s too. Worth the risk. What could the Turks do? Tow them back to Istanbul, where they were anyway, rotting? Better to make a run for it.

Later it was said the engines would never have made it, not at that speed, that weight. They were bound to overheat. But no one really knew how the fire had started. Some sort of explosion, probably, flames suddenly leaping up into the night. The ship had been just off Yedikule, close enough for the fire to be seen, but even so the rescue boats were late. The Bratianu had begun to break up by then, people screaming in the water, going under, later washing up, the shore littered with them, like driftwood. Anna had managed to save a few, swimmers strong enough to stay afloat, grab onto paddles, but the children were gone. It must have been then, watching the debris and corpses float toward her in the ship’s lights that something had broken in her too, another overheated engine.

“There’s the chance of another one,” Mihai said. “A boat. The British are watching Brindisi now, so we’re trying to get one here.”

“Should I know this?”

“Why not? We have no secrets from each other. Except the ones you don’t tell me.”

Leon looked over at him. “I don’t know who he is.”

“So you said. Well, a surprise for both of us. Eine kleine Uberraschung.”

“You’re so sure he’s German.”

“Who else comes out this way? The Americans. First they put them on trial. Now they take them home. A change of heart, very useful.”

“You can’t put everyone on trial.”

“Why not? They wanted all of us dead. No exceptions.”

“Anna’s German.”

“A Jew. It’s different.”

“That’s what they wanted everyone to think.”

“In that they succeeded. Now we know who we are.”

“Where are you getting the ship?” Leon said, changing the subject.

“Trabzon. Of course a wreck. But if it can make it this far, why not Palestine?”

“A freighter?”

“Maybe for your tobacco. From Trabzon. Tobacco and hazelnuts.”

Leon pointed out the windshield. “Pull up here.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

“They’ll see us.”

They parked in the drop-off area by the quay. A few boats bobbed against their mooring posts, launches you could hire, their owners probably keeping warm in the cafe on the other side of the road. No one else around.

Mihai put on a knitted sailor’s hat, pulling it over his ears. “Let’s hope they’re not late. It’s freezing.”

They walked over to the edge of the pavement, looking out at the black water. Any minute now, unless the boat had had to dodge a patrol around Garipce.

“The money’s already arranged?” Mihai said. “You don’t want to hang around bargaining.”

Leon tapped his breast pocket. “On delivery.” He looked over at Mihai, clamping his ears for warmth. Two men standing in the cold, outlined by the cafe lights behind them. Up to what? They’d have to move soon.

“Hear that?” A boat being put in gear, the noise moving toward them, their shadowy figures spotted from the water.

“Right,” Mihai said, “one, two, three. Let’s go. You pay, I’ll get Johnny in the car.”

The fishing boat, still without lights, now swung toward the quay, throwing out a rope.

“John?” Leon said, feeling foolish, as if it were a password.

The passenger nodded. Thin, smaller than Leon had expected, about Mihai’s height. A heavy woolen jacket. He shoved a step box against the gunwale.

Mihai pulled him up out of the boat, gripping his hand. “Come on. Car’s over there. Get in the back,” Mihai said in a rush, then stopped, his eyes on the passenger’s face, reading it.

Below them the fisherman started talking in Turkish, Leon answering before he got louder.

“My bag,” John said, nodding to a duffel bag in the boat. “I have a bag.”

For a second Mihai didn’t move, still staring, until John looked back at him, a question mark. “I’ll get it,” Mihai said finally, breaking his own trance. “The car. Over there. Hurry.”

“It’s all right?” John said to Leon, suddenly anxious, a what’s-wrong expression.

Leon made a shooing motion. “Fine. Get in the car.”

“And my money? What about my money?”

Leon took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it down. The fisherman started to count the bills.

“It’s all there. Throw us the bag and get out of here.” Behind him, he heard the car door slam. “Before anyone sees.”

“Ha. Before anyone sees you.”

“Just throw up the goddam bag,” Mihai said, edgy, putting one foot on the boat, reaching out.

“First I count,” the fisherman said. “Who are you anyway? Nobody said two. One man.”

“Count it, then,” Leon said, impatient now, watching him thumb through the notes. Unshaven, face surly.

“Nothing extra for the extra day?”

Leon could feel Mihai tense up next to him, coiled. “Not here,” he said quickly, improvising. “After you’re back. And we know no one’s seen you.” Something Tommy could easily arrange. Pocket change.

“The bag,” Mihai said, his voice low, almost threatening, so that the fisherman picked it up without question, heaving it across the gap. Mihai swung it onto his shoulder.

“No lights till you’re past the landing,” Leon said, reminded by a sweep of headlights from the road.

Mihai tossed back the rope.

“Did he say anything? You had two days.”

The fisherman shook his head. “No Turkish. We play dominoes.”

“The money will be there when you get back,” Leon said. “The extra.”

The fisherman smiled, an uneven row of teeth with gaps. “Inshallah,” he said, a hand on his chest. He went over to the controls, pushing the handle forward. The boat choked, then started moving, the engine grinding, swinging out again toward the dark, the sputtering still audible even after it was out of sight.

“They’re lucky they made it. In that,” Mihai said.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Mihai turned to him. “You know what you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?”

A crunch of tires, a car door slamming. Mihai turned to it, then suddenly swiveled, the air near him exploding, his body jerking back, as if he’d been punched. He let out a sharp cry, hit somewhere. Leon saw the duffel bag falling, then Mihai pitching forward, rocking.

“Get down!” A hoarse grunt as he dropped onto the duffel, scraping the pavement to get behind it.

Another shot, hitting the concrete near the edge of the bag, Mihai rolling away from it. Leon ducked, then threw himself down, flattening his body on the concrete. Out of the light but still exposed, his mind a minute behind what was happening, trying to catch up. What soldiers must feel, everything around them moving too fast. Getting killed. Afraid they’d pee.

He lifted his head a little, looking across the quay. The shots had been so loud that everyone must have heard. He expected people rushing out of the cafe. But nobody appeared, even the cafe lights now hidden behind the dark bulk of the car where the shots had come from.

“Mihai,” he said, a hiss.

“Keep down.” He was reaching into his pocket, pulling out a gun, crouching farther behind the duffel for cover. “Roll away!” Mihai said, still hoarse. “Keep moving.”

But the next bullet went to the duffel again, a locator shot for Mihai, who now aimed at the point in the dark where it had been fired. Leon watched him steady the gun. Nothing but dim reflected light on the road. But he found