The Big Blue Sky: Twenty

Istanbul, Turkey. June, 2006. Molly shook away the memory of that terrible place, the cold and sadness lingering in her a moment. The images and raw emotions had never completely left her. They never left the nation, instead remained boiling below the national skin, like an abused child's eternal angst, awaiting a spark to set it off. Molly turned her thoughts to better things.

It was one of the few real pleasures of travelling abroad, Molly thought, sitting in the bright and comfortable hotel dining room. European breakfasts were luscious affairs of eggs, fruit, cereals, hearty rolls, yogurts, juicy European sausages, cheeses and fruits. She could have gorged herself at the buffet. It was a temptation to gorge upon everything, but Molly kept to a modest sampling of brie, a fiery Soppressata, spicy red pepper Ajvar-a sort of Balkan and Mediterranean spread , figs and sour slices of Elma, or apple.

The dining room was pristinely kept and cheery, with blond paneled walls and a view to the shaded street beyond. As guests came and went the white clothed tables were briskly cleaned by a staff that was as efficient as any elite military unit. The place was chaotic with Japanese students on a class trip. An Armenian business man gulped down food, anxiously pouring over a report while checking his watch frequently. An elderly German couple looked over a tourist map at another table.

Molly lifted a tiny cup of potent Turkish coffee to her lips, almost shuddering at a bitterness no amount of sugar could abate. Beside her were two Newspapers' the International herald Tribune and The Times. She turned over The Times. Near the bottom of the page was the first part of an article titled: DISPATCH FROM ISTANBUL: BAGHDAD UNDER THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, by Doug Springer. It began as a study between the desperation and dilapidation of Baghdad and the sunny cafes and bustling boutiques of Istanbul. The piece progressed through rare historical perspectives, observations about Christianity, Islam, oil, empire, Communism and Capitalism.

Molly rummaged through her purse until she found the business card Doug had given her in New York. She felt a bit silly for keeping it all this time. The card had outlived most every other business, a picture of David card and several department store credit cards. She drew the cell phone from her pocket and nervously weighed dialing Doug’s number. Her heart pounded crazily as she dialed and lifted the phone to her ear. Molly dialed quickly. It rang several times before he picked up.

“Springer?”

“Hi, um, Doug, my name is Molly, Molly Karaman with…”

“Ground Zero,” he said. “The FBI agent.”

“You remember!” she replied. “Impressive.”

“How did you, where are you calling…”

“It’s a bit crazy, but I’m in Istanbul on a case and I saw that you were here and thought, well…”

“How about lunch?” he said quickly. “Shall we say one-thirty-ish?”

A few hours later Molly was sitting at a sunny sidewalk café, looking along a busy postcard street towards TheE golden Medeival walls of Topkapi Palace. A warm salty breeze off the sea tugged the hair from her shoulders. That warm was tempered nicely by the shade of sturdy maroon umbrellas above the tables of the sidewalk cafe. Puffy white clouds spotted an otherwise pristine cerulean sky. It was all so perfect, as if the day refused to be forgotten.

Molly grew more nervous as the hour approached, as if she was a school girl on a date. She wondered was he still married, her mind drifting away in some silly romantic memory. Molly was still lost in the moment, a smile coming lightly to her that she failed to notice Doug as he strode lazily up the street until he was standing before her.

He was dressed in an embroidered white shirt as loose as the breeze off the sea. His slacks were khaki and neatly pressed. In sandals her hardly looked the part of a war correspondent. His hair was cut almost severely short, now brushed with a distinguishing hint of silver. As he drew the inexpensive glasses from his nose Doug’s eyes maintained a cautious view of the street. He smiled warmly as she rose to meet him.

“Doug?” she struggled to reconcile his memory after so many years.

“Agent Karaman,” Doug shook her hand cordially.

“Call me Molly.”

“Okay, Molly,” his eyes moved along the busy avenue again, as though it held a thousand and one dangers. “What do you say we grab a table inside?”
Though she loved the view Molly conceded readily and was already gathering her purse and things from the table. “Sure.”

They found a corner table inside the tiny storefront café. It was intimate and comfortable, the midday sun falling oblique through intricate white-lace curtains. In the center of the table two fat red carnations diverged from one another from narrow blue tulip vase. There was a counter along the back wall where lean waiters in clean beige shirts and black slacks readied drinks and various coffees. The air was filled with the scent of warm fresh bread and meats grilling in the tiny kitchen out back. A ceiling fan turned slowly above a hand full of small tables.

“Hope this is all right,” said John, politely out Molly’s seat. “Makes me nervous being on a busy street unless I can watch everything.” He smiled painfully. “Too many years covering the Middle East.”

“I’ve read some of you articles about the war.”

Doug started to speak. He paused, leaned back in his chair and smiled. There was definitely an attraction. Physical beauty aside, Doug found himself drawn to her. It was worth a mild flirtation, Doug thought, as long as he was careful to keep it just that.

“When you called it took me a second...”

A waiter arrived, interrupting him. Molly swept a lock of hair behind one ear and took the opportunity to look over a small green drink card, helping her to conceal a smile. They each ordered a tea. Molly waited for the waiter to leave.

“You know, I found your card and I remembered what you said that day at Ground Zero.”

“Good memory,” he replied. “Better than mine.”

“Know what it was.” Molly paused when the waiter returned with their drinks. “In my profession everything becomes black and white. It is rare that I hear someone speak about all this with color and depth and something more, more…human.”

Doug chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Now I wish I remembered exactly what I said. It must have been amazing!”

Her smile deepened. “I see it in your writing from the war. It is so…” she stopped herself from gushing. “Well, I really enjoy your work.”

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Molly noted that Doug wasn’t wearing a wedding ring any longer. There was no tan line, no telltale indentation on his finger. Molly felt a warm electric rush of excitement.

“Your family must worry terribly.” The question was a test meant to satisfy her curiosity.

“I don’t tell them everything,” he began. “A week after the invasion Jane was diagnosed with breast cancer.”

“Your wife?” she replied hiding her disappointed.

“Its in remission now, but I think she and the girls have enough to worry about.”

“It must be difficult.”

“I hope she forgives me for that.” He let out a long slow breath, seeming to deflate a little. “Looking forward to a time when I won’t have to run around war zones, and I can catch up on all the time lost.”

“They don’t get the behind the scenes stuff?’ she smiled.

“Six months ago I was grabbed off a street in Mosel by members of the local mafia hoping to sell me off to the highest bidder. Could have been Al Qa’eda that paid the ransom.” He touched the side of his hand to his neck and gave a fatalistic grin. “In which case I’d be about this much shorter.”

“They could have killed you.”

“But I wasn’t. A Marine patrol happened upon me. I got lucky.”

“You never told them?”

“Never told anyone, until now.”

“Wouldn’t it have made a great story for your readers?”

“I wrote it,” he said, “but then one day I visited a neighborhood where insurgents had rounded up all the men in the neighborhood and beheaded them. A policeman said it was the same all over the city. Made my little adventure seem very insignificant.”

“You’re not wearing a ring.”

“Makes me a bit less of a target.” The weight of his words languished between them a moment. Doug touched her arm gently. “Enough of all that. So what brings you to Turkey?”

She took a sip of her piping hot tea. “An extradition case. My mother was Turkish, and I always wanted to come here, so I volunteered.”

“Istanbul is an amazing city.”

She thought a moment, fascinated as he poured a bit of sugar into his tea then dragged a spoon slowly through it. “I hope this isn’t out of place, asking a married man to have dinner tonight, but I really don’t know anyone else here.”

“I’ll do you one better,” he said. Doug stood and helped Molly to stand. “Come with me!”