“Don’t let this tool for the American government fill your head with propaganda and lies!” The man smiled cordially, as if it was simply a joke, though not entirely. His accent was clearly Middle Eastern, though he could have passed easily at a glance for a Caucasian on any small town street in America. His hand fell warmly upon Doug’s shoulder. Doug looked him up and down and couldn’t contain his reaction.
“Ah, I see the Iranian delegation to Shosa industries has arrived as inconspicuous as ever.”
“Laugh, my friend,” the Iranian shot back, motioning to Doug’s Soviet get-up, “America will soon join the other failed relics of the Twentieth Century on the junk heap.”
“Molly, may I introduce my favorite Iranian spy, Ahmed Fallahi. Molly is with the federal Government.” Doug offered a thoroughly sarcastic grin and winked. “You two should talk!”
Fallahi was clearly surprised at the introduction, but didn’t miss a beat. “And all along I thought you were just a nice innocent Turkish girl.”
“Turkish by heritage. American by birth,” she replied, as he offered her his hand with a polite bow. “And I am indeed very nice and very innocent.”
Fallahi gave a cocktail party laugh. “You should really keep better company, my dear. Your friend here loves to invent stories for his readers, and for you, it seems. It is far too boring for him that I am simply with the diplomatic service.” He smirked in Doug’s direction. “Not his fault really. The product of America’s shameful education system, I’m afraid.”
“Interesting that a diplomat would be at a party for an arms dealer,” Doug shot back. “Buying or selling these days?”
“There you see,” Fallahi said to Molly. “The American Press, always for drama over substance.”
“I happen to think Doug is an amazing writer,” Molly defended, sipping her drink.
“Oh, I fully agree,” he replied. “Like your Stephen King or Sydney Sheldon; pure fiction!”
“You’re terrible!” said Molly, touching Doug’s arm reassuringly. She let it linger there, only drawing away when it seemed to make him uncomfortable.
Fallahi relented a bit. “You are right. Actually my good friend here is well respected in my country for his depth and fairness, despite the handicap of his nationality.”
“In that regard,” Doug capitalized fully upon the moment, “care to respond to reports that Iran is aiding the Iraqi insurgency?”
Fallahi frowned at the question, and weighed his answer carefully. “All I can say is what I read in the Western papers, and perhaps some rumors, but I think you will also find American soldiers illegally acting within our territory. Your President has invaded countries to either side of us.”
“So reports of armor piercing Improvised Explosives, reportedly made in Iran, and Iranian operatives in Iraq you would consider retaliation or self defense?”
Doug knew he was bating Fallahi, and was please to provoke the tension building in his brow. Molly could see it as well, and recognized the signs of a person who is trapped. She’d see it in interrogations a hundred times. Fallahi pursed his lips, then forced a smile.
“My country has been exceedingly restrained for these illegal incursions, but every tolerance has its limits.”
“And the operatives working with the insurgency?”
“I am only a diplomat, my friend, but we can also have a significant interest on what happens with our neighbors.”
“Clearly Iraq and Afghanistan were problems that needed to be addressed, and after September Eleventh, well...” said Molly.
“”We in Iran were as shocked and disgusted by the attacks as you, Miss Karaman, and we are no friends to the Taliban or Al Qaeda. It is well known that Mister bin Laden is an enemy of the Iranian State. But imagine if China invaded Mexico with an army of occupation. How would America feel for that, uh?”
Molly nearly took the bait. It would have been nothing to unleash a litany of Iranian violations against the International community, as well as numerous other accusations regurgitated by the Press daily. She might have argued from a point of American exceptionalism, that the United States, by fate or providence had become a force for good in the world. Who was Fallahi to Molly really? Her blood warmed steadily towards a boil, until she noticed the smirk on Doug’s face.
“Oh, you two are terrible!”
Fallahi laughed and excused himself. Doug and Molly watched as he made his way to Shosa, who greeted him as if he and Fallahi were old and dear friends.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-two
It was opulence of the sort Molly had never experienced. Set against the city lights on the far shore, the tall and sleek Marmara hotel shone like some modern palace. She paused, climbing from the little red Mercedes taxi, her expression reflecting that awesome first impression.
She was dressed like an early Eighties Punk rocker, in a faded British flag tee-shirt, frilly lace skirt, striped leggings and thrash boots. Her air was purple and neon-green molded and formed with copious amounts of styling gel by an "artist" at By Retro. Molly felt light and young, finding it impossible to contain a smile. Doug climbed out behind her. He was dressed in the same Soviet sailor’s outfit he’d ogled earlier. Molly couldn’t help but laugh as they followed a parade of party goers wearing all manner of absurd costumes.
“Little ironic, don’t you think?’ she remarked. Doormen in long black coats with polished gold buttons held the door, nodding politely.
“What’s that?’
“Didn’t you say we were here to see the future?”
“Indeed.”
“Looking like a couple of refugees from the Eighties.”
It was like a dream inside. Stunning and colorfully embroidered whirling Dervish outfits were framed about the large and elegantly decorated lobby. Sturdy white-marble columns were cooled by moss green oriental carpets and maroon furniture, all beneath a monstrous chandelier.
Twenty stories above Istanbul’s streets the elevator doors opened to a party room so magnificent, so surreal that Molly gasped in amazement, placing a hand over her madly beating heart. Doug, beside her, smiled with delight at her reaction.
“This is amazing,” was all she could think to say.
The servers were all dressed as Charlie Chaplin’s little hobo, in bowler hats, tuxedo jackets, baggy trousers and tramp shoes. Little black mustaches were smudged beneath their noses. Balancing trays crowded with champagne-filled flute glasses on finger tips, they move deftly among the crowd. Molly laughed at the wild and absurd scene before her. Darth Vader had an arm around a harem girl, while two clowns argued finance with Austin Powers and a samurai warrior. At the bar a zombie flirted with a nun. There were cowboys, Indians, Princes, princesses (female and male) hippies, a captain Kirk, a short and pudgy Mister Spock and half a dozen Klingons. Mixed among them were numerous others wearing ornate carnival masks. They wore formal dress and seemed content to keep their identity a mystery.
There was a sign at the entrance. Molly studied it curiously a moment. The words written across the beautiful print of a Fifteenth century Bosnian Bridge, built during the Ottoman, era read:
KICK OFF AND COSTUME BALL
Sponsored by
SHOSA INDUSTRIES:
SECURITY AND DEFENSE CONTRACTORS
“WE’RE THE GUYS RIDING IN WITH THE BIG WHITE HATS…”
Umberto Shosa, Director and Chief Executive Officer
“So who is Umberto S-osa?” Molly asked.
“Sh-osa,” he politely corrected her, pointing to an accent mark above the “s.” He drew her attention to a small man in a perfectly tailored Italian tuxedo making rounds through the crowd. An assistant, two stunning Turkish starlets and a massive Croatian bodyguard surrounded the man. “He’s a rising star in the International arms trade.”
“Legal or illegal?”
“The Hague wanted him for the massacre of a Serbian village during the Civil War. By the time the warrants came down he’d already amassed a fortune dealing arms in Africa. A few well placed bribes, a good PR campaign, a UN official here a couple parliamentary ministers there…13 years ago he was looting villages, now he’s worth an estimated three and a half billion.”
“A lot of money in war.”
“All cash business, if you can separate conscience from the bloody crop your product yields. Do that and you can have all this guilt free.”
A waiter passed. She was a small fair-skinned teenager. Her long blond hair was stuffed almost comically into the bowler hat, and held firm by a matrix of hairpins. The square little mustache under her nose was partially smeared. Doug watched her moving through the crowd and was reminded of his eldest daughter, Megan. He waved to her, scooped away two glasses of pale bubbling champagne and replaced them with a ten Euro note.
“Thank you,” she said in thickly accented English, before disappearing through the crowd before Doug could reply.
He handed her a glass. They touched the rims together. As they did she looked up into his eyes, finding that they so beautifully reflected the lights of the party.
“What are we toasting to?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from his.
“To peace,” he replied, looking away for fear of being swept away by her physical beauty.
Molly looked over at Shosa. “I’ve worked mob cases convicting hit men with better ethics and morality.”
Doug took a long sip of champagne, and suddenly felt guilty for it, knowing that this was all paid for in blood and misery and violence. “If you are wealthy enough and connected enough, there are virtually no laws against waging and supporting warfare around the globe.”
“So what is this party all about?” asked Molly.
“Pure theater,” he said. “But if you were to check passports in this room, I bet you’d find someone representing a side in almost every conflict worldwide, and probably a few characters representing more than one side.”
A man approached, smiling awkwardly, and dressed like an Ottoman sultan, in a gold jacket, proud red turban, white flared trousers that came to the knee and the caricature slippers turned up at the toe. There was something Molly didn't distrust about the man, not in a criminal way, but in a sort of arrogance and cynicism about humanity men deep within the intelligence apparatus of each government holdn It was the consequence of working in the murky depths between the black and white letters of law, and the illusions of apparent morality.
She was dressed like an early Eighties Punk rocker, in a faded British flag tee-shirt, frilly lace skirt, striped leggings and thrash boots. Her air was purple and neon-green molded and formed with copious amounts of styling gel by an "artist" at By Retro. Molly felt light and young, finding it impossible to contain a smile. Doug climbed out behind her. He was dressed in the same Soviet sailor’s outfit he’d ogled earlier. Molly couldn’t help but laugh as they followed a parade of party goers wearing all manner of absurd costumes.
“Little ironic, don’t you think?’ she remarked. Doormen in long black coats with polished gold buttons held the door, nodding politely.
“What’s that?’
“Didn’t you say we were here to see the future?”
“Indeed.”
“Looking like a couple of refugees from the Eighties.”
It was like a dream inside. Stunning and colorfully embroidered whirling Dervish outfits were framed about the large and elegantly decorated lobby. Sturdy white-marble columns were cooled by moss green oriental carpets and maroon furniture, all beneath a monstrous chandelier.
Twenty stories above Istanbul’s streets the elevator doors opened to a party room so magnificent, so surreal that Molly gasped in amazement, placing a hand over her madly beating heart. Doug, beside her, smiled with delight at her reaction.
“This is amazing,” was all she could think to say.
The servers were all dressed as Charlie Chaplin’s little hobo, in bowler hats, tuxedo jackets, baggy trousers and tramp shoes. Little black mustaches were smudged beneath their noses. Balancing trays crowded with champagne-filled flute glasses on finger tips, they move deftly among the crowd. Molly laughed at the wild and absurd scene before her. Darth Vader had an arm around a harem girl, while two clowns argued finance with Austin Powers and a samurai warrior. At the bar a zombie flirted with a nun. There were cowboys, Indians, Princes, princesses (female and male) hippies, a captain Kirk, a short and pudgy Mister Spock and half a dozen Klingons. Mixed among them were numerous others wearing ornate carnival masks. They wore formal dress and seemed content to keep their identity a mystery.
There was a sign at the entrance. Molly studied it curiously a moment. The words written across the beautiful print of a Fifteenth century Bosnian Bridge, built during the Ottoman, era read:
KICK OFF AND COSTUME BALL
Sponsored by
SHOSA INDUSTRIES:
SECURITY AND DEFENSE CONTRACTORS
“WE’RE THE GUYS RIDING IN WITH THE BIG WHITE HATS…”
Umberto Shosa, Director and Chief Executive Officer
“So who is Umberto S-osa?” Molly asked.
“Sh-osa,” he politely corrected her, pointing to an accent mark above the “s.” He drew her attention to a small man in a perfectly tailored Italian tuxedo making rounds through the crowd. An assistant, two stunning Turkish starlets and a massive Croatian bodyguard surrounded the man. “He’s a rising star in the International arms trade.”
“Legal or illegal?”
“The Hague wanted him for the massacre of a Serbian village during the Civil War. By the time the warrants came down he’d already amassed a fortune dealing arms in Africa. A few well placed bribes, a good PR campaign, a UN official here a couple parliamentary ministers there…13 years ago he was looting villages, now he’s worth an estimated three and a half billion.”
“A lot of money in war.”
“All cash business, if you can separate conscience from the bloody crop your product yields. Do that and you can have all this guilt free.”
A waiter passed. She was a small fair-skinned teenager. Her long blond hair was stuffed almost comically into the bowler hat, and held firm by a matrix of hairpins. The square little mustache under her nose was partially smeared. Doug watched her moving through the crowd and was reminded of his eldest daughter, Megan. He waved to her, scooped away two glasses of pale bubbling champagne and replaced them with a ten Euro note.
“Thank you,” she said in thickly accented English, before disappearing through the crowd before Doug could reply.
He handed her a glass. They touched the rims together. As they did she looked up into his eyes, finding that they so beautifully reflected the lights of the party.
“What are we toasting to?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from his.
“To peace,” he replied, looking away for fear of being swept away by her physical beauty.
Molly looked over at Shosa. “I’ve worked mob cases convicting hit men with better ethics and morality.”
Doug took a long sip of champagne, and suddenly felt guilty for it, knowing that this was all paid for in blood and misery and violence. “If you are wealthy enough and connected enough, there are virtually no laws against waging and supporting warfare around the globe.”
“So what is this party all about?” asked Molly.
“Pure theater,” he said. “But if you were to check passports in this room, I bet you’d find someone representing a side in almost every conflict worldwide, and probably a few characters representing more than one side.”
A man approached, smiling awkwardly, and dressed like an Ottoman sultan, in a gold jacket, proud red turban, white flared trousers that came to the knee and the caricature slippers turned up at the toe. There was something Molly didn't distrust about the man, not in a criminal way, but in a sort of arrogance and cynicism about humanity men deep within the intelligence apparatus of each government holdn It was the consequence of working in the murky depths between the black and white letters of law, and the illusions of apparent morality.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-one
“Where are we going?” asked molly. Doug threw down ten Euros for the Tea and followed Molly out onto the sidewalk.
“We are going to a cocktail party tonight.”
Molly laughed. “I don’t have anything to wear for a cocktail party,” she complained. “And my hair, and, Doug it is impossible…”
“Trust me,” Doug waved down a taxi. “I’ve got it all covered.”
They took the taxi across the Bosporus, leaving the thrusting spires of the Hagia Sophia, old Istanbul and the tree crowded bluffs of Topkapi behind. The Galata Bridge spilled into the haphazard streets of Beyologu, where history and modern commerce met in a sort of semi-controlled chaos. The streets grew as canyons. The brushed Oriental buildings lining those canyons were a patchwork of light and shadow, criss-crossed by flowing banners and bright red Turkish flags swimming in the funneled breeze of Istiklal Caddessi. Deep-set windows threw iridescent light across the deepening shadow of the street. There was meat grilling somewhere, an errant whiff of sweet perfume and the salty taste of the sea. A tram rattled by, parting afternoon shoppers at the fashionable boutiques and cafes lining the boulevard.
Doug led her down an alleyway just off the boulevard, where the sunlight only teased the upper floors of buildings, but left the hidden shops there submerged in the concrete chill and shadow. A short walk along the alleyway, tall golden Oriental letters adorned broad mirrored windows reading:
BY RETRO
“What is this place?”
Doug gave a beaming smile, hardly able to contain his excitement. “A fantasy.”
Inside the air was thick with pungent cigarette smoke, drifting and nebulous among an orgy of colors and shapes and textures. It reminded Molly of the long forgotten, and somewhat neglected attic of an Off Broadway pack rat. Indeed, the air was musty and cool, reminding Molly of an aunt’s root cellar. There were shoes, costumes and cascading fixtures burgeoning with handbags. Shimmering beneath an ancient crystal chandelier were cabinets of vintage sunglasses and eyeglasses, like some hidden treasure trove.
“Oh my god!” Molly gasped, opening her arms and sweeping them through the clothes hung to either side of the crowded isle.
There was just so much packed into the place that at once is seemed claustrophobic and endless; a place Molly could have died to be lost in. She turned to Doug, her eyes as wide and excited as a child’s on Christmas morning.
“How do you know about this place?” she asked. Vintage treasures covered the walls clear to the vaulted ceiling, running the gamut from the elegant to the absurd.
“I come to Istanbul to get away from the tragedy du-jour of the Middle east. Sometimes I come for background.”
“How so?’ Molly swept her hand across racks of garments, cataloguing a dozen different garments and textures with her fingertips.
“This is a metropolis at the center of any number of hotspots, currently and historically. There are Bosnians here, Chechens, Kurds, Iraqis, Palestinians.”
Upon a countertop she cupped her hands and lifted jumbled multi-colored and multi-jeweled necklaces, as if they were water tumbling from the fixture.
“God, this place is amazing!” she said. “So where are we going tonight?’
Doug paused, his attention drawn to a simple fabric mannequin adorned in an old Soviet Naval uniform, complete with white cap and the iconic striped shirt. He smiled and looked up at Molly.
“The future,” he said. “A glimpse of the future.”
“We are going to a cocktail party tonight.”
Molly laughed. “I don’t have anything to wear for a cocktail party,” she complained. “And my hair, and, Doug it is impossible…”
“Trust me,” Doug waved down a taxi. “I’ve got it all covered.”
They took the taxi across the Bosporus, leaving the thrusting spires of the Hagia Sophia, old Istanbul and the tree crowded bluffs of Topkapi behind. The Galata Bridge spilled into the haphazard streets of Beyologu, where history and modern commerce met in a sort of semi-controlled chaos. The streets grew as canyons. The brushed Oriental buildings lining those canyons were a patchwork of light and shadow, criss-crossed by flowing banners and bright red Turkish flags swimming in the funneled breeze of Istiklal Caddessi. Deep-set windows threw iridescent light across the deepening shadow of the street. There was meat grilling somewhere, an errant whiff of sweet perfume and the salty taste of the sea. A tram rattled by, parting afternoon shoppers at the fashionable boutiques and cafes lining the boulevard.
Doug led her down an alleyway just off the boulevard, where the sunlight only teased the upper floors of buildings, but left the hidden shops there submerged in the concrete chill and shadow. A short walk along the alleyway, tall golden Oriental letters adorned broad mirrored windows reading:
BY RETRO
“What is this place?”
Doug gave a beaming smile, hardly able to contain his excitement. “A fantasy.”
Inside the air was thick with pungent cigarette smoke, drifting and nebulous among an orgy of colors and shapes and textures. It reminded Molly of the long forgotten, and somewhat neglected attic of an Off Broadway pack rat. Indeed, the air was musty and cool, reminding Molly of an aunt’s root cellar. There were shoes, costumes and cascading fixtures burgeoning with handbags. Shimmering beneath an ancient crystal chandelier were cabinets of vintage sunglasses and eyeglasses, like some hidden treasure trove.
“Oh my god!” Molly gasped, opening her arms and sweeping them through the clothes hung to either side of the crowded isle.
There was just so much packed into the place that at once is seemed claustrophobic and endless; a place Molly could have died to be lost in. She turned to Doug, her eyes as wide and excited as a child’s on Christmas morning.
“How do you know about this place?” she asked. Vintage treasures covered the walls clear to the vaulted ceiling, running the gamut from the elegant to the absurd.
“I come to Istanbul to get away from the tragedy du-jour of the Middle east. Sometimes I come for background.”
“How so?’ Molly swept her hand across racks of garments, cataloguing a dozen different garments and textures with her fingertips.
“This is a metropolis at the center of any number of hotspots, currently and historically. There are Bosnians here, Chechens, Kurds, Iraqis, Palestinians.”
Upon a countertop she cupped her hands and lifted jumbled multi-colored and multi-jeweled necklaces, as if they were water tumbling from the fixture.
“God, this place is amazing!” she said. “So where are we going tonight?’
Doug paused, his attention drawn to a simple fabric mannequin adorned in an old Soviet Naval uniform, complete with white cap and the iconic striped shirt. He smiled and looked up at Molly.
“The future,” he said. “A glimpse of the future.”
Monday, June 28, 2010
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!”
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!”
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Nineteen
October 2001. Unending was the only way to describe this place. The grief and tragedy seemed to go on and on without end. The suddenness and cruelty of that warm abd bright September morning had faded to dull and obstinate pain. And the nation, instead of seeking some meaning or healing, turned inward, trading virtual and wisdom for bitterness and paranoia.
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
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