Leo glances up. “She awakes.”
“What time is it?”
He lowers his eyes to the time on his laptop. “Two in the afternoon.”
Julia sits up on her elbows. “Oh God, that’s practically another day lost.”
“You needed to sleep.”
There’s an edge to his voice and she decides not to argue. She throws aside her covers and stands.
“We need to go see Christine Fletcher.”
He grins at her. “I may have something better.” He flips the laptop around to show her. It’s a Wikipedia page of a female journalist named Beren Aslan.
“The reporter I emailed about the rape stories wants to meet us.”
46
They wait on the marble steps of the Yeni Camii mosque, a stone’s throw from the waterfront. Earlier Julia and Leo had made their way through the warren of narrow streets behind the mosque, an area that housed the Istanbul spice market, a throbbing, noisy open-air collection of shops and stalls. The exotic market sold all manner of things. Powdered turmeric. Cinnamon sticks. Chilies. Olives. Dried apricots. Dates. Figs. Shelled walnuts. Pistachios. All displayed in large hessian sacks or plastic tubs. Vendors offered Julia and Leo tasting samples as they passed, which they politely declined, concerned they were going to be late for their meeting with Beren Aslan. But when they finally located the Yeni Camii, the journalist was nowhere to be seen.
Leo looks at his watch now. They’ve been waiting for nearly half an hour.
“Five more minutes,” he says. “Then we’ll can it.”
Julia studies the crowd for a woman in her mid-forties with short dark brown hair. She only hopes the Google image they are relying on isn’t too outdated. They had found it on Beren Aslan’s Wikipedia page, which had made for interesting reading. It seemed the outspoken reporter on Turkish women’s issues had been forced to resign her position at one of Turkey’s leading newspapers because of her social activism. She now runs a controversial blog, The Bayan Guardian (The Lady Guardian), that covers stories about such topics as a Muslim woman’s right to decide whether to wear a headscarf or not; the sexual objectification of Turkish women in social media; and what Beren Aslan has herself described as Turkey’s shameful record of imposing pitiful sentences for men who perpetrate violent crimes against women. Not a woman who shies away from controversy, that’s for sure. Hopefully, she is also someone who will be willing to shed some light on any connection between the rapes and Toni’s disappearance. But as Julia waits on the steps and glances over the faces in the crowd, she begins to feel despondent.
“With the luck we’ve been having lately, she probably won’t even show,” she says.
Leo remains silent.
Julia pauses and looks at him. “I’m being negative.”
“Forget it.”
“No, I’m sorry. You’ve been a fantastic support.”
“That could be her,” says Leo, eyes drifting past Julia’s shoulder.
Julia turns and catches sight of a woman walking briskly toward them, dressed smart casual in a burgundy leather jacket, black pants, and ankle boots.
“Yes, that’s definitely Beren,” says Julia, standing.
As the woman gets closer, Julia notes the slash of plum lipstick and dark kohl eyeliner that makes Beren’s large brown eyes appear even larger. The woman nods a hello then glances around.
“Not here,” she says. “There are spies everywhere.”
*
Beren Aslan, it turns out, is an extremely fast walker and both Julia and Leo have to half-jog in order to keep up. After crossing the public square outside the mosque, they follow her through the back streets adjoining the spice market, then turn a hard left. They continue on a few more blocks, heading east until Beren stops outside a plain building.
She swings opens the door.
“After you,” she says.
Julia looks up at the staircase made of non-slip galvanized steel.
“What is this place?” says Julia, suddenly uneasy.
Beren shrugs. “You want to talk, you don’t want to talk, that’s fine by me.”
Beren hits the stairs two at a time, leaving Julia and Leo at the bottom.
“Leo, I don’t know about this,” says Julia.
He grabs her hand. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
He pulls her up the stairs before she can object and they are both breathless by the time they reach the entrance to a rather sad-looking café. The place is mostly empty, with a pool table that doesn’t look like it sees much action, a Sleepy Hollow pinball machine, and a large plant pot containing a plastic weeping willow with pink blossoms.
Beren opens another door and leads them up a short flight of stairs to the rooftop.
“Wow,” says Leo, stopping to admire the panoramic view stretching out over the Bosporus and into the northern side of Istanbul.
Beren heads to a far corner overlooking a grungy rooftop patio where laundry hangs on a clothesline. She drops into one of the mismatched resin chairs, pulls out a pack of Benson & Hedges, and lights up.
“They will bring tea shortly. Take a seat and we will begin.”
47
“So,” says Beren, blowing out a stream of smoke from her very purple lips. “Your sister is missing.”
“Can you help us?” says Julia.
“Do you have a photograph?”
Julia pulls out the flyer and gives it to Beren.
The reporter studies it closely. “None of the other girls ever went missing. Raped, yes. Missing, no.” She hands back the flyer. “I have not seen her.”
“All the victims were Western?” says Leo.
“Correct.”
“And there were five of them?”
Beren nods. “That we know about.” Beren looks from Leo to Julia. “Have you tried contacting them?”
Julia nods. “We spoke with Sarah Pinkton’s father. He wouldn’t let us talk to her. He said she was still traumatized by the incident. The other victims wouldn’t talk to us either.”
Beren purses her lips. “As I thought.”
“What do you mean?” says Julia, puzzled.
Beren falls silent and watches the laundry flap in the wind.
“Can I trust you?” she says.
Julia glances at Leo, wondering where all this is going.
“Of course,”
