“What the hell is that noise?” says Leo, halting.
They stand listening. Somewhere nearby people are chanting.
“Sounds like a protest,” says Julia.
“Oh, boy,” says Leo. “We don’t want to get caught up in that.” He grabs her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
They cross the road, turn left, and halt.
“Holy shit,” says Leo.
The street is filled with people, mostly young, waving flags, thrusting signs, thumping drums.
“I guess we can forget that cab.”
Julia raises her voice over the racket. “I think they’re heading for the Galata Bridge. Let’s follow and see if we can make our way back to the hotel along the waterfront.”
Julia and Leo weave in and out of the crowd, holding tight to each other’s hand. The chanting and drumming grows louder, and Julia feels it reverberate inside the walls of her chest.
“Stick close!” Leo yells.
They half-jog through the throng. A girl no more than nineteen with the Turkish flag painted on her cheek grabs Julia’s arm as they pass.
“The prime minister is in bed with terrorists!” she shouts.
Sirens flash up ahead. Stationary police cars and men in combat gear are lined up in front of a barrier blocking the Galata Bridge.
“Oh my God, Leo, guns!” shouts Julia.
The combat men are clutching heavy-duty weapons and look like they mean business. Suddenly, behind Julia and Leo there’s a surge and they are catapulted forward into a mosh pit of angry politically charged youth, all pushing forward toward the bridge.
Leo pulls on her arm. “Jesus, Julia. We gotta get out of here.”
“Wait!” Julia points into the crowd. “Isn’t that Detective Muhtar? Has he been following us?”
Next to her, a guy with a goatee and lip piercing shakes her arm.
“Cover your face!” he shouts in broken English.
“What? Why?”
Julia watches with growing dread as the protesters pull bandanas and rags from their pockets and tie them around their heads covering their noses and mouths.
The goatee guy shoves a cut lemon and two rags into her hands.
“Put the lemon on the rag. It will help with gas.”
But before Julia can do so, a volley of shots rings out from the bridge. Police are firing into the crowd. A hissing canister lands right by her foot.
“Leo, we’ve got to get out of here!” she yells.
But when Julia turns around, Leo isn’t there. Her eyes begin to stream. She presses the rag to her face and tries to breathe. The protesters surge forward. Police shoot a warning round into the air. That’s a live round, Julia thinks, they are actually shooting live rounds. Julia scrambles up some steps and frantically looks across the crowd for Leo. She calls out for him but her voice is lost in the chaos.
Police fire again and protesters scatter. Through blurred vision, Julia sees a white substance oozing from people’s eyes. At first she’s horrified, then she realizes it’s milk, that people are pouring milk into each other’s eyes. A sudden, hard push from behind and her satchel is torn from her shoulder. Flyers tumble out and quickly get trampled underfoot. She bends, reaching for the satchel, then feels a shove, an elbow in her back, between her lower two vertebrae, and she’s pushed to the ground hard and fast.
The stone step hurtles toward her and everything goes black.
22
Julia blinks awake. She’s back home in her apartment, safe in her own bed. But something isn’t right. Groggy, she lifts her head, wincing from the pain in the back of her neck. She looks around. She’s in bed, dressed in a hospital gown. The night before comes back in a rush. The protest. The tear gas. The foul-smelling smoke. She sputters a cough and plunges a knuckle into her suddenly watery eye.
“How are you feeling?”
She squints at the figure in the doorway. Two figures. Detective Muhtar and Christine Fletcher.
Detective Muhtar has a plaster above his right eye. A memory shudders into place.
“You were following us,” says Julia, sitting up.
He doesn’t say anything.
Julia turns to Christine Fletcher. “Did you know about this?”
“Detective Muhtar helped you,” says Christine. “It’s lucky he was there at all. Things could have been much, much worse, Julia. Believe me.”
“You mean I should be grateful he was spying on us?” says Julia, throwing off the blanket. “This is unbelievable.”
She swings her feet out of bed, sways precariously. Detective Muhtar catches her before she falls.
“Get your hands off me.”
Then she remembers Leo. Her eyes dart to Christine. “Where’s Leo?”
Christine holds up a hand. “Leo’s fine. Just a nasty bang to the cranium. A few stitches. Nothing serious.”
Julia lowers herself to the edge of the bed, exhaling.
Detective Muhtar looks at her. “You want to help. This is understandable. But you must let police do their jobs. This type of thing diverts resources from the investigation.”
Julia stands and this time she’s prepared for the rolling wave of nausea and remains steady on her feet. She reaches for her clothes folded on a chair.
“If we were back home people would be tying yellow ribbons around lamp posts and doing ground searches.”
“Please, Dr. Norris, you must rest,” says Detective Muhtar, hovering close.
“Detective Muhtar’s right,” says Christine. “Your concussion could be serious. You need to be cleared by the doctor before you go anywhere.”
Julia pulls on her jeans. “Oh, that would suit you perfectly, wouldn’t it? Problem sister kept out of the way.”
Christine shakes her head. “It isn’t like that, Julia. Believe it or not, I do understand what you’re going through.”
Julia pulls on her sweater. “Oh, you have no idea.”
Christine pauses. “I lost my husband in the World Trade Center. It took two months to confirm he was in the number two tower.”
Julia stops what she’s doing and looks at Christine. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. That is truly terrible.”
Christine looks at her wedding ring. “Yes, it is, and that’s why I do what I
