would let out a squawk, but whatever they had to say, it wasn’t in English. I half expected to see Graham Greene’s Myatt from
Ward’s mood had improved when he returned. The expansive personality of the jovial professor was back. I thought it a talent of his, this ability to flip so quickly out of the dark side where his natural personality lay. “Our contact phoned the hotel. He’ll be here soon. I was told it isn’t customary to eat in the bar but I managed to persuade the bartender. I ordered us some food and drinks.”
“We’re staying here tonight?”
“No. Just here for a while then we’re off. It’ll take five hours to reach our destination.”
“Afyon—that town you mentioned?”
“North of it.” The bartender interrupted with a tray of drinks and served Ward first instead of Eris. He almost bowed in deference, appreciative no doubt of the very large tip Ward must have passed his way. I played with the idea of getting a message to the New York police through him but doubted I’d manage to talk with him alone.
Ward decided to show off, still in full professor mode. “The hotel has one of the best views of the Golden Horn in the city. It’s off the beaten path now, which is why I like coming here. This place was built in 1892, soon after the Orient Express line came to Istanbul. The trains brought a new wave of invaders, English tourists in search of Near East mystique. Agatha Christie wrote
“It seems a bit genteel here for Hemingway. I remember reading that in China he drank wine from a jar with eight snakes in it.” I enjoyed the look of irritation on Ward’s face after I butted in.
Two men appeared in the entrance. Eris smiled, with a touch of relief I thought, and beckoned to them. I guessed one was somewhere in his thirties; the other, with a peppering of gray in his dark hair, close to fifty. They wore casual suits, no ties, and sunglasses, even though it was long past sunset. The younger guy had a gold watch with a heavy linked band. They looked as though they’d just stepped out of
Ward made a show of offering them drinks, which they declined. Eris didn’t bother with introductions, or at least it seemed that way because she launched into a short speech in what I gathered was Turkish. When she finished, the gray-haired man glanced at Ward and nodded.
“Ask how long ago it was when they saw him,” Ward said to Eris.
She translated, got an answer, and said, “Last night at the tomb. Mazare”—she indicated the older man —“confirmed he’s still in the area.”
Who were they talking about—Tomas? He’d told me the treasure originally came from Anatolia, and we knew there was a Phrygian connection, but I couldn’t believe they’d find anything in Turkey. Ashurbanipal’s plunder was supposed to have been removed to Assyria thousands of years ago. I couldn’t be certain, though, that Tomas had told me the truth.
“Where exactly are we going then? I don’t want to head off on some wild goose chase,” Ward said.
Eris spoke to the older man. He got out his cellphone and placed a call, speaking rapidly in Turkish, and spoke to Eris again.
“He’s in one of two places,” Eris said, “the villages of Yazilikaya or Ayazinkoyu. Mazare has watchers in both locations. They think he’s holed up somewhere for the night and won’t make a move until morning. If he tries to leave they’ll keep him captive until you arrive.”
Ward’s face reddened in annoyance at the vagueness of the answer and at having to cede control to Eris, who had command of the language.
“You’re referring to Tomas Zakar?” I directed this to Ward.
He hesitated then decided to give me the truth. “He’s here, not in
Iraq as you believed. Thought he could put one over on us I guess.” I still had strong doubts about this but kept them to myself. The food arrived. A couple of appetizers, one served with cacik, a yogurt dip, along with stuffed eggplant, pilav, and doner kebab, a phenomenally tasty grilled lamb dish. We raced through the meal, as Ward was anxious to get away.
Back in the car I was once again stuck in the middle between Eris and Lazarus. Our original driver had disappeared and Mazare took the wheel, pushing the car to top speed. His companion followed behind in a blue Ford Econoline van. It would never keep up with our Merc, I thought.
I hated the scent of Eris’s spicy perfume and the unpleasant proximity of the jester’s hard, angular form. I remained wide awake for the entire ride despite the late hour, my internal clock thoroughly blown from the flight.
Through the front windshield I could see light beginning to filter through the eastern sky with the approach of dawn. We were in hilly country—reddish ground, tufts of dark green scrub, and vegetation punctuated by ravines and occasional stretches of fruit orchards and farms. I felt another tug at my heart. What I wouldn’t give to have the freedom to get to know the country.
I kept my eye out for road signs, trying to get a sense of where we were headed. At one point we skirted a major city, Eski?sehir, then continued east on the E90 highway. I realized soon after that we’d lost the van. As we approached a town about twenty minutes later, our driver turned around and spoke to Eris. “We’ve reached Cifteler,” she said to the rest of us. “We turn here.”
We veered off to the right onto a one-lane paved road until we reached a settlement. The car jerked to a halt, and Mazare pointed to a clutch of buildings ahead. “Yazilikaya,” he said. We got out of the car.
“Which way?” Ward asked testily. Mazare must have understood some English because he again pointed ahead. The sight took my breath away. A gently sloping hill rose before us, dotted with rustic, tile-roofed houses and outbuildings. Behind them reared a high ridge of cliffs made up of rock towers, soft volcanic stone shaped by wind and water over millennia into gigantic sculptures. Centered in the ridge and rising almost the full height of the cliffs, at least sixty feet, a magnificent tomb face had been carved into the rock. It took the form of a simple rectangle with a peaked roofline. The rising sun shone directly on its surface, the pink tones of the stone dazzling my eyes. With the special effects of the morning light and the contrast between the tomb and the rough surrounding stone, it looked as though a magic doorway had just appeared on the cliff face.
We circumvented the village, the few people about at this hour paying us no heed. I assumed they’d long grown used to tourists. As we got closer I could see the structure was covered with intricate geometric designs and at its base was a deep niche. There was only this facade; the interior had never been completed.
Ward couldn’t resist stopping in front of it. “The tomb of Cybele,” he said, indicating a series of markings. “This is one of the best examples of Phrygian writing to be found.” He turned to me. “You know the story of Cybele?”
“Some of it,” I said, remembering what Phillip Anthony had told Laurel and me.
“She was a sister goddess to Ishtar, and like her, an emblem of fertility and blood lust. In a jealous rage Cybele slaughtered the woman her lover Attis desired. Attis severed his own genitals with a sharp flint in despair.” Ward smiled. “Not a lady you’d want to tangle with.”
We left the monument behind and walked toward a staircase hewn into the rock face. Eris walked beside Mazare, speaking quickly to him. Lazarus positioned himself at the rear of our little delegation. We reached the staircase and began to ascend. The stairs were uneven, crumbling in many places, and no handrails had been provided. Corrugated walls of rock towers hemmed us in on either side, making the path seem like a cathedral aisle. The scene resembled some wild, inspired Gaudi fantasy.
Even this early in the morning the heat was sweltering and Ward, the least agile of us, huffed and puffed. I’d taken a position directly behind him and noticed his legs shaking, either because of the physical effort or, more likely, fear of the height. Every so often a gap in the rock walls would open, the path dropping away sharply. One little push, that’s all it would take and he’d plummet over the side. I could scramble down after him, get his phone, and try to run. Maybe. But Eris and Lazarus would be after me like a pack of dogs.
The stairs led to a natural archway in the cliff and through it shone a circle of azure sky. When we emerged out the other side we found ourselves on the flat crest of the ridge. Ruins of an acropolis stretched before us. Stone altars and strange robed figures with conical hats had been carved in relief out of the rock face. A faint wind ruffled my hair. I was awestruck by the enchantment of the place.
Our guide waved us over and crouched beside another section of cliff edge. Eris bent down and peered over. “There’s a ledge jutting out from another tomb entrance about thirty feet down. Lazarus and I can check it out.”
