“Sure.”
“Don’t you need to stop and pray?”
Detective Muhtar shrugs. “Religion is for the old people, really.”
He looks out the window and signals to the office building on the left with his chin.
“We arrive at the embassy,” he says.
“Here?” says Julia, looking at the nondescript office building.
Detective Muhtar nods. “There was a bombing last week at the main American embassy. They come here for temporary measure.”
“A bombing?” says Julia, glancing at Leo. “I hope no one was hurt.”
“Do not worry. You are safe here,” Detective Muhtar says, getting out of the car.
Julia waits until he shuts the door before turning to Leo. “I don’t have a good feeling about him, Leo,” she whispers. “He doesn’t exactly look like their best and brightest.”
Leo stares at the building. “Let’s hold off judgment until we speak to our guys first, find out what Christine Fletcher has to say.”
Before Julia can reply, Detective Muhtar opens their door.
“Let us go. Ms. Fletcher is waiting.”
14
He ushers them into the foyer and through security screening, where a uniformed guard X-rays the contents of Julia’s satchel and Leo’s pockets, and another guard conducts a pat-down and wand scan on each of their bodies. Once they’re given the all clear, they take the elevator to the fifth floor and follow Detective Muhtar down a carpeted corridor to a doorway flanked by two heavily armed guards.
Detective Muhtar flips his ID and the guards admit them to a small holding area where Leo and Julia are required to pass through another metal detector and have their belongings X-rayed again. With that done, they are shown to a temporary reception area.
Julia looks around. Someone’s done their best to make it look official. A large US flag is propped up on a standing pole in the corner. On the wall above a standard office desk there’s the round United States of America embassy seal complete with bald eagle insignia.
It’s not long before a red-headed woman emerges from a backroom. Mid-forties, sober face free of makeup. Black pants, white shirt. Competent, practical, personable. Julia likes her immediately.
The woman extends her hand. “Merhaba, Dr. Norris, I’m Christine Fletcher.”
Julia shakes it, notes the wedding ring. “Nice to meet you, Christine. And please call me Julia. This is Leo Fraser, my former husband.”
Christine shakes his hand. “Merhaba, Leo.” She nods toward the door she emerged from. “Let’s talk in my office.”
They follow her through the doorway, up a flight of stairs, across an open plan area where a dozen or so workers are seated at laptops—American by the looks of them—and into a small, windowless room. The room is cramped with a plain pine wooden desk, four white plastic tub chairs, a cabinet to the left, three sealed cartons in the corner to the right. Even though the hurried, temporary nature of the office is obvious, Christine Fletcher has clearly taken the time to make the space orderly, her desk especially. A manila folder and large legal notepad sit side-by-side at the center, a jug of water and some mismatched glasses next to that. Her nameplate is positioned, facing out, in the upper righthand corner, while in the other corner, at a perfect right angle, there’s a photograph in a simple black frame. A happy shot of Christine and a man. Husband probably. Taken years earlier, in front of the Taj Mahal.
The room smells faintly of mildew and Julia spies a smattering of mold in the corner of the ceiling above a rattling air conditioner.
“Not exactly ideal, I know,” says Christine Fletcher, taking a seat behind the desk. “But there was an incident at our embassy last week.”
“We heard,” says Julia. “I hope everyone was okay.”
Christine frowns. “One casualty, unfortunately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not going to lie, it’s been rough. But we’re not here to talk about that, you want to know what we’re doing to find Toni,” says Christine, resting her forearms on the desk and knitting her fingers together.
“I know they told me to stay away,” says Julia, “but she’s my sister. I had to come.”
Christine waves a hand. “Absolutely. If it was my sister, I’d be here too.” She reaches for the water jug, pours them each a glass. “Look, I know you must be feeling anxious but travelers go missing all the time then turn up. It’s so common, you wouldn’t believe.” She looks directly at Julia. “However, the backpack, the passport, it’s not a good sign.”
Julia feels a lump in her chest. “The backpack might have been stolen. Toni could still be out there with no money stuck on some border.”
Christine gives her a sympathetic look.
“You don’t know my sister,” insists Julia. “It’s exactly the type of stupid thing that would happen to her. She can be careless like that. I can’t tell you how many times she’s asked me for money because she lost her wallet or gave it all away to some street person.”
“Like I said, we’re considering all possibilities. But I want to be frank with you. There are some uncomfortable scenarios that we might have to entertain. For one, Turkey is a well-established white slavery route. We’ve had instances of girls being kidnapped and shipped off to Eastern Europe to work in brothels or internet pornography. Believe it or not, sometimes they’re even smuggled into the States for the same thing. And not long ago a US citizen was killed by a vagrant. Her body was found after a three-day search.”
“Toni isn’t dead,” says Julia flatly.
“I’m sorry,” says Christine. “That was insensitive of me.”
Julia’s forces herself to relax her shoulders. “There’s no need for apologies. I just ask that you keep an open mind.”
“Of course.”
“What can you tell us about the investigation so far?”
Christine nods toward Detective Muhtar. “We’re working as closely as we can with the Turkish authorities.”
Julia raises her eyebrows. “The American embassy isn’t running the investigation?”
Christine shakes her head. “Strictly speaking, we’re in Turkish jurisdiction so it’s the Turks’ investigation. We’re supposed to
