CHAPTER TWO
“…I don’t want any Nano-bots in my medication to tell the government whether or not I’m taking my medication…”
Glen beck May 17, 2010
Doug had dozed off, slumped upon the sofa in the living room. It was less a fitful sleep than an exhausted one. The rain had moved off some time ago, leaving just the cold and damp ,which had worked its way into Doug’s Body. But it wasn’t the cold that wrested him from sleep, but rather Megan. She was shaking him. His eyes fought to open, finding her terribly alarmed. It was then he heard the pounding at the front door. Megan looked to the sound. That’s when Doug noticed the kitchen knife in her hand.
“Dad, wake up!” she exclaimed at hardly more than a whisper. “There’s a strange man at the door."
Doug groaned and forced himself to sit upright.
“Who is it?” he asked blindly. As if to underscore how dumb a question it was, Megan frowned and held up the knife.
Pain thundered in Doug’s head. The Brandy had taken a greater toll than he thought. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, taking the knife from her hand.
“Go upstairs and make sure your sister is okay.”
The knocking continued. It was urgent and loud. Still holding the knife Doug waited until Megan was safely upstairs then went to the door. He looked through the peephole and drew away quickly. Doug looked once more and took a moment, as if he wasn’t actually seeing what was there. It was impossible, he thought. Surely it was a product of the liqour, but when he looked a third time there could be no doubt.
Doug set down the knife and undid the bolt on the door. He turned the handle, pulling harder when the door stuck a bit. It had only opened a crack when Ahmed Fallahi burst through the door and into the front room.
“Hey!” Doug cried, his head suddenly clear. His mind was still fighting to accept all this. What was an Iranian spy doing in his living room and on a night like this? Fallahi was breathless and disheveled. He was dressed in a dark brown suit, which was almost black in the soft light. His black London Fog coat looked as if it had been slept in. Ther was mud on his knees and scratches on his face, probably from navigating the trees in the dark. More than that Fallahi was half out of his mind with fright.
“Douglas, forgive me,” Fallahi fought to collect himself.
“Ahmed, my girls are upstairs.” He took Fallahi firmly by the arm and led him across the room away from the stairs. Doug turned on the lamp beside the sofa. The golden yellow light threw their shadows through the picture window and out onto glistening wet lawn. Beyond that light the world faded to a silken darkness that seemed suddenly alive with danger. The nearest neighbor was better than a quarter mile away, well concealed by the forests and inky blackness of the Michigan night.
“You are the only person I can trust, Douglas.” He looked sharply to Doug. “Have you seen the news tonight?”
Doug fought a wave of emotion, as if tearing the words from his soul one syllable at a time. “I buried my wife today.”
“I am sorry,” said Fallahi, almost dismissively.
“Dad?” Megan appeared at the bottom of the stairs. In one hand she held her phone. She had already dialed nine-one-one, as she’d been taught. Her thumb hovered over the dial button.
“Its all right, sweetheart. There won’t be any trouble.” He looked to Fallahi. “Will there?’
“No, praise god, no!” Fallahi replied.
Doug nodded and Megan retreated back up the steps, leaving the men alone again. Doug sat on the couch. The headache had returned with a vengeance, finding refuge directly behind his eyes. It didn’t help matters as Fallahi anxiously paced the room. Doug felt suddenly queasy and thrust out a hand stopping Fallahi in his tracks.
“You are gonna have to stop that.”
“You understand I am an Iranian Patriot, completely deicated to the revolution that drove out the corrupt Shah and restored my country.”
“Ahmed, it is one in the morning and you are standing in my living room giving me a sales pitch from the Ayahtollah's tourist board.”
“I am sorry,” he said, turning and staring from the window out into the dark night and the wall of trees across the road. “I am so confused and…”
“What is this all about?” Doug asked.
Fallahi paused, and believed he saw something, an errant shadow, an unnatural movement among the trees across the road. He ignored, believing it the product of an exhausted and overburdened mind. He turned back to Doug.
“If our countries went to war legitimately I would fight with all my soul, and if necessary I would gladly martyr myself without hesitation.”
Doug shook his head. The pain behind his eyes was getting worse. “I’m trying to follow…”
“My old friend, make no mistake, our nations will go to war. Perhaps they are at this moment, but I must do everything to stop this war. If nothing else then everyone should know the truth.”
Doug stared blankly at the man. Fallahi was sweating profusely, his eyes darting everywhere, as if searching the room and the air for any answer. He was almost incoherent, a state Doug had never seen in Fallahi before.
“Doulas, I don’t know if I was followed here, but there isn’t much time,” Fallahi pleaded. "I thought several times someone…I tried to…Doug you must help me.”
“Ahmed, you’re not making sense!”
“Something happened today, Doug, but it is not what it seems. This is only the beginning. You must understand that what has happened, and what will happen will change the world as much as the discovery of fire!”
“I can’t…” Doug had heard quite enough. He stood and took Fallahi by the arm, but the man pulled away, almost throwing Doug to the floor. He caught himself and looked up, chagrined and angered to find Megan at the stairs again.
“Dad?” she still held the phone, her thumb still poised. It was up and away from her as if she might throw it or wield it as a weapon.
“Megan, please!” he said sternly, righting himself. “Go upstairs with your sister and close the door!” Doug fumed at Fallahi. “You’re frightening my children, Ahmed.”
But Fallhi’s attention was momentarily distracted, his gaze out the window and at the trees. He had seen something move there and knew what was about to happen. It seemed a proper justice, from some universl point of view, as if the years spent as hunter required balance and for him to become the prey. Strange, he thought, but a man who knows he is condemned feels nothing. He only felt remorse for leading them to a friend’s door, and resolved to lead them away if he could. What other choice did he have. He’d leave and go to his fate hoping that Doug would carry the story, andbegin the investigations and upheavals necessary to put the world to right again, or at the very least find some small justice.
“Listen to me, I haven’t much time,” Fallahi continued. “Just know that everything is a lie. We are being tricked into war for a greedy few, for a Frankenstein monster.” He looked again to the window, but seeing nothing was far worse. His brow crumbled as he turned to Doug again. “They have come for me.”
“Who has come for you?”
Fallahi skirted the question. “A month ago I received information from an informant within the opposition in Tehran. Douglas, a nightmare is about to be unleashed upon the world, a weapon that will shock and horrify beyond any measure of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Doug, do you remember Istanbul?”
“I don’t…” Doug squeezed his eyes, as if that would help him make some sense of all this.
There was movement again, much closer this time. A shadow slipped past the window with blinding speed. Fallahi missed it, but Doug saw clearly, though there was no chance to react.
Suddenly a man appeared through the still open door. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his trousers tucked into a dully polished pair of combat boots. A wool cap was pulled down tightly, so that only the man’s unblinking dark brown eyes and lips were visible. He was holding a pistol in a gloved and, and it was already pointed at Fallahi.
Two quick shot exploded in the room. The .45 caliber rounds struck the Iranian in the face and exploded the back of his skull, covering Doug with blood, bits of brain and sticky chunks of scalp and hair. Fallahi pitched backwards onto the couch and slid to one side leaving a broad crimson smear across the beige fabric of the couch.
Doug was frozen, unable to move. He was looking at the gunman with a mixture of dread and disbelief. He thought of the girls the instant before the gunman hammered him with a punishing roundhouse in the temple. The world flashed to white, the slug sounding like a freight train for the fraction of an instant before the white faded to a blackness as deep and dark and complete as death.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-five
The mood in the White House Press Briefing Room was explosive. This late at night the bleary-eyed reporters, many of whom had already put in a thirteen hour day, squinted against the harsh lights of the windowless room. It was unprecedented that the President would call a Press conference so late. But as developments from the Gulf leaked out steadily there was little doubt as to the subject. Cable news channels picked it up live just after eleven thirty on the east Coast. CBS interrupted David Letterman’s monologue, his usual retinue of devoted fans suddenly staring at an empty presidential podium , a jumble of news cameras and unidentified heads moving back and forth and in and out of focus, as if it was some confused game of musical chairs. They were still milling about and chattering when the president strode unannounced across the plain stage and went directly to the podium without any announcement.
“Just over eight hours ago,” the President began, the reporters caught off guard and quickly scrambling to their seats and camera spots. The President’s expression was as weighted and severe as the moment. At the back of the room the CNN reporter kept talking, some inane nonsense about the rarity of a late night Presidential announcement and missed the first few moments of the speech before being poked in the thigh by a BBC journalist.
“Just over eight hours ago a distress signal was intercepted by one of our ships. That signal contained encrypted information that led Naval personnel to believe they were in fact dealing with a downed American aircraft inside Iran.”
A wave of shock swept through the room, a mixture of gasps and murmurs.
There were heated discussions between the President and his staff prior to calling Press Conference. There were those who thought that the administration should remain quiet and see what hand the Iranians and the republicans would play on this issue. Others believed he should be strong and unwavering, giving the Iranians what amounted to an ultimatum. The opinions were varied and loud, but it was the President’s that won in the end.
The Press and opposition would get the news soon enough and spin or misconstrue the situation to, what he believed would be, a dangerous degree. Moreover the Iranians were awakening and surely would have their own spin on the situation, and would have nearly a day’s lead on the story in Asia and Europe. In the President’s opinion the situation depended upon who got out first and loudest, and he wasn’t about to be second best here. He continued.
“Subsequent information corroborated that conclusion and a decision was made to send in a rescue team. All indications are that Iranian forces ambushed that rescue mission with significant loss of American life.”
The room fell silent. ABC and NBC broke into regular programming a moment later.
“I have subsequently placed all our forces throughout the region on the highest alert. Details remain sketchy, but there have been survivors and they are currently in Iranian custody…”
“Are you considering military action?” someone yelled.
“I can tell you that all options are on the table,” said the President.
“Are any military operations under way?” cried another reporter, a woman from MSNBC.
The President Ignored the question. “We expect the Iranian authorities will adhere to the International rule of law, especially in light that this was in fact a rescue mission, and not a military incursion. We have already made that clear through diplomatic channels directly to the Iranian government…”
“Have you spoken with President Ahmadinejad?”
“We are already using all means at our disposal for the safe and immediate return of our personnel. The full power of the United States military and the Federal government has been mobilized to bring a speedy resolution to this manner, and return our people safely to their families. Thank you.
The room erupted into an uproar as a deafening crescendo of questions chased the President as he strode quickly from the podium.
“Is the US and Iran currently in a state of war?” shouted the man from FOX.
“What about the downed pilot?” asked reporter from the Washington Post. But without acknowledging a single person the President left the stage and was instantly engulfed and ushered away by a phalanx of aides and Secret Service.
“Just over eight hours ago,” the President began, the reporters caught off guard and quickly scrambling to their seats and camera spots. The President’s expression was as weighted and severe as the moment. At the back of the room the CNN reporter kept talking, some inane nonsense about the rarity of a late night Presidential announcement and missed the first few moments of the speech before being poked in the thigh by a BBC journalist.
“Just over eight hours ago a distress signal was intercepted by one of our ships. That signal contained encrypted information that led Naval personnel to believe they were in fact dealing with a downed American aircraft inside Iran.”
A wave of shock swept through the room, a mixture of gasps and murmurs.
There were heated discussions between the President and his staff prior to calling Press Conference. There were those who thought that the administration should remain quiet and see what hand the Iranians and the republicans would play on this issue. Others believed he should be strong and unwavering, giving the Iranians what amounted to an ultimatum. The opinions were varied and loud, but it was the President’s that won in the end.
The Press and opposition would get the news soon enough and spin or misconstrue the situation to, what he believed would be, a dangerous degree. Moreover the Iranians were awakening and surely would have their own spin on the situation, and would have nearly a day’s lead on the story in Asia and Europe. In the President’s opinion the situation depended upon who got out first and loudest, and he wasn’t about to be second best here. He continued.
“Subsequent information corroborated that conclusion and a decision was made to send in a rescue team. All indications are that Iranian forces ambushed that rescue mission with significant loss of American life.”
The room fell silent. ABC and NBC broke into regular programming a moment later.
“I have subsequently placed all our forces throughout the region on the highest alert. Details remain sketchy, but there have been survivors and they are currently in Iranian custody…”
“Are you considering military action?” someone yelled.
“I can tell you that all options are on the table,” said the President.
“Are any military operations under way?” cried another reporter, a woman from MSNBC.
The President Ignored the question. “We expect the Iranian authorities will adhere to the International rule of law, especially in light that this was in fact a rescue mission, and not a military incursion. We have already made that clear through diplomatic channels directly to the Iranian government…”
“Have you spoken with President Ahmadinejad?”
“We are already using all means at our disposal for the safe and immediate return of our personnel. The full power of the United States military and the Federal government has been mobilized to bring a speedy resolution to this manner, and return our people safely to their families. Thank you.
The room erupted into an uproar as a deafening crescendo of questions chased the President as he strode quickly from the podium.
“Is the US and Iran currently in a state of war?” shouted the man from FOX.
“What about the downed pilot?” asked reporter from the Washington Post. But without acknowledging a single person the President left the stage and was instantly engulfed and ushered away by a phalanx of aides and Secret Service.
The Big Blu Sky-Twenty-four
They stood beside the Bosporus, not far from Molly’s hotel. The lights from the Asia side blinked like so many stars in the building humidity, crowded upon the hillside and silhouetted against the curtain of black night. To the west a storm was growing, tendrils of bright gold and blue lightening reaching across towering thunderheads. The thunderheads built until the jet stream tore away the tops in ghost-white shrouds. The hum and chatter of the living city was silenced in gusts that drew snow-white tassels upon the black waters of the channel. Molly and Doug were leaning on a rail. She felt electric at the warmth of Doug’s arm so close to hers.
She was thinking that it would be nice if Doug kissed her, though she would never have dared to utter such a thought out loud. He was so attractive and interesting, and so married, and Molly wondered if she could ever be the “other” woman. Still, there was a connection that was impossible to deny. Whether or not she would act on that attraction was still an open question.
He was away in thought. Molly looked up at him and noted that far away expression. It was as if he was struggling with something.
“Care to share, Doug?”
He shook the thought away.
“Thinking about Shosa and Fallahi. On some levels I can understand the Iranians positions and motivations, but then they do all this stupid shit that erases any sympathy for their position.”
“The nuclear thing?”
“Truth of it is, a few technologically advanced nations are wrong to prevent new technologies from reaching less advanced nations. Its quite impossible really. It would be akin to banning the piston engine because they might produce tanks instead of automobiles.”
“Don’t you think that the technologies that provide weapons of mass destruction to rogue or irresponsible states is different?”
"Maybe."
"So what is Fallahi's part in all this?"
“Iran’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and their embassies provide a support network for international cells funneling money, messages, supplies, weapons.”
“Like the CIA.”
“You argue like a lawyer,” he smiled.
“Got my law degree at John Marshall.”
“"I'll concede that there’s a fundamental difference. The Iranian government is loaded with former Revolutionary Guard commanders; Minister of Energy, Welfare and Social Security, Housing and Urban development, Labor and Social Affairs. The Minister of Education headed the Secret Police in Tehran at one point.”
A virtual military junta,” Molly observed.
“Exactly.”
“And Fallahi?”
“Listen, I have no illusions about Fallahi.” Doug folded his arms and leaned back against the rail.
“What is that relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said.
“Not asking as a federal Agent?”
Molly smiled. “Off the record.”
He breathed deeply. “We use one another, and there is an implied respect in that.”
"But you don't completely trust him?"
“Two Years ago three men murdered an Iranian-Kurdish dissenter in Lindsborg, Sweden. Reportedly Fallahi was in Sweden at the time and closely matches the description of one of the assassins.”
“Anyway,” he stood to face her. “Enough of politics.”
In flashes on distant lightening, the city lights sparkling in her eyes, Doug was taken by her dark beauty. The wind tugged a lock of hair across her cheek, and it was all he could do not to push it away. He knew too well where that could lead, but still the temptation remained. He imagined kissing her soft lips, drawing her into his arms. It had been so long since he had felt a woman. He thought of Jane, struggling with cancer and felt so ashamed simply for the thought, but Molly was here and so beautiful.
“Want to come up for a bit?” she asked, her eyes like deep dark beckoning pools. He looked away, towards Asia. He smiled and, when he felt a bit stronger, found her eyes once more.
“Maybe its best that I just say goodnight.”
She was thinking that it would be nice if Doug kissed her, though she would never have dared to utter such a thought out loud. He was so attractive and interesting, and so married, and Molly wondered if she could ever be the “other” woman. Still, there was a connection that was impossible to deny. Whether or not she would act on that attraction was still an open question.
He was away in thought. Molly looked up at him and noted that far away expression. It was as if he was struggling with something.
“Care to share, Doug?”
He shook the thought away.
“Thinking about Shosa and Fallahi. On some levels I can understand the Iranians positions and motivations, but then they do all this stupid shit that erases any sympathy for their position.”
“The nuclear thing?”
“Truth of it is, a few technologically advanced nations are wrong to prevent new technologies from reaching less advanced nations. Its quite impossible really. It would be akin to banning the piston engine because they might produce tanks instead of automobiles.”
“Don’t you think that the technologies that provide weapons of mass destruction to rogue or irresponsible states is different?”
"Maybe."
"So what is Fallahi's part in all this?"
“Iran’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and their embassies provide a support network for international cells funneling money, messages, supplies, weapons.”
“Like the CIA.”
“You argue like a lawyer,” he smiled.
“Got my law degree at John Marshall.”
“"I'll concede that there’s a fundamental difference. The Iranian government is loaded with former Revolutionary Guard commanders; Minister of Energy, Welfare and Social Security, Housing and Urban development, Labor and Social Affairs. The Minister of Education headed the Secret Police in Tehran at one point.”
A virtual military junta,” Molly observed.
“Exactly.”
“And Fallahi?”
“Listen, I have no illusions about Fallahi.” Doug folded his arms and leaned back against the rail.
“What is that relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said.
“Not asking as a federal Agent?”
Molly smiled. “Off the record.”
He breathed deeply. “We use one another, and there is an implied respect in that.”
"But you don't completely trust him?"
“Two Years ago three men murdered an Iranian-Kurdish dissenter in Lindsborg, Sweden. Reportedly Fallahi was in Sweden at the time and closely matches the description of one of the assassins.”
“Anyway,” he stood to face her. “Enough of politics.”
In flashes on distant lightening, the city lights sparkling in her eyes, Doug was taken by her dark beauty. The wind tugged a lock of hair across her cheek, and it was all he could do not to push it away. He knew too well where that could lead, but still the temptation remained. He imagined kissing her soft lips, drawing her into his arms. It had been so long since he had felt a woman. He thought of Jane, struggling with cancer and felt so ashamed simply for the thought, but Molly was here and so beautiful.
“Want to come up for a bit?” she asked, her eyes like deep dark beckoning pools. He looked away, towards Asia. He smiled and, when he felt a bit stronger, found her eyes once more.
“Maybe its best that I just say goodnight.”
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-three
“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.
“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.
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!”
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