Annja was sitting at a table
with a lot of men in a hotel conference room in Ankara, Turkey.
"You must understand," said the enormously tall, gaunt man with the
eagle's-beak nose and dark circles under his eyes, "that there exist
certain elements within my government who…resent American patronage of Kurdish
separatists." He wore an olive-drab military uniform with a chestful of
colorful ribbons.
The room air-conditioning worked with a nasty subliminal whine. It was a race
whether it would slowly but inexorably give Annja a blinding headache or drive
her mad. It worked though, keeping the temperature to arctic levels despite
unseasonable heat in the streets of the Turkish capital outside, almost three
thousand feet above sea level in the middle of the central massif of the
Anatolian peninsula.
Unfortunately, it also reacted in some insidious way with the smoke generated
by their host's harsh-smelling Turkish cigarette to produce about the same
reaction as tear gas in Annja's eyes. The Ankara Sheraton had a strict
no-smoking policy. Apparently being a general of the Turkish army allowed you
to opt out on that. Big surprise there, Annja thought.
"Well, General," Leif Baron said, leaning back in his chair and
tapping a pen on the polished tabletop before him. "You should understand
the Kurds have been our good friends in Iraq. They're the best indigenous
allies we have there. What was that, Mr. Wilfork?"
"Nothing of consequence," said the man he'd addressed the last question
to. He answered in what sounded to Annja like an Australian accent. It had also
sounded as if he'd muttered, "The only ones who don't switch sides or
bloody run away," under his breath at Baron's mention of the Kurds.
He wore a tan tropic-weight suit that fit his bulky frame as if he'd picked it
off the rack, possibly at Goodwill: the suit was taut to near splitting at the
shoulders, straining the buttons over his belly, the fabric bagging and
rumpling at the chest. Despite the room's chill he mopped at his big crimson
face with a scarlet handkerchief. His hair was thinning, combed over the top
and white-tinged with yellow, although Annja had the impression he was only in
his early fifties. She glanced at the equally tall and out-of-shape-looking Charlie
Bostitch, who lounged across the table from the general at Baron's side,
looking smug and at ease.
"Nonetheless, the United States has seen fit to provide assistance to
certain Kurd groups internationally recognized as terrorists," the general
said. "Indeed, the United States itself so recognized them, before they
found a use for their services. Please, gentlemen—I do not raise these points
in order to obstruct or cause complications. I, too, am eager for this
expedition to take place. But it must be founded on a realistic appraisal of
the situation, yes?"
"We've paid out plenty of money," Baron said, lounging back in his
seat and crossing one leg over the other. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt,
stretched tight over the bulging muscles of his chest and upper arms, and khaki
trousers. "That ought to smooth our way."
"Now, now, gentlemen," Bostitch said, shaking his head. "Why
don't we all just try to get along, here? We're men of goodwill. And the issues
are bigger than all of us, after all."
General Orhan Orga gazed at him with his sad bloodhound eyes for a long moment
before nodding.
"It is also true," he said, "that the army feels especially
embattled now in its traditional role of maintaining the official secularity of
our Turkish Republic against a rising tide of Islamism in political life. It
is, I fear, a case of democracy in practice defeating democratic ends."
"Oh, I can understand that," Bostitch said, nodding his head.
"And after all, you're fighting the good fight against the Muslim infidel."
"Dear Lord," Wilfork said out loud into a sudden silence. Annja noted
that even the half-dozen young men, Rehoboam Christian Leadership Academy graduates all, who made up the bulk of the expedition were staring at their leader in
something like dismay.
Orga's mouth compressed to a line beneath his magnificent brush of moustache.
"Please understand that a majority of Turks, inside the army and out, are
faithful followers of Islam. It is the job of the army, as outlined in our
constitution, to maintain a clear distinction between religion and politics.
That is all."
"Ah," Bostitch said, nodding and smiling. "Separation of church
and state. That's—"
He stopped and did an almost comical take. He'd caught himself just in time
praising a political concept he was quite famous for denouncing back home in
the States. Annja scratched her upper lip to hide an incipient grin that she
just couldn't quite hold in. She wondered if their fearless leader had been
covertly hitting the bottle again.
Despite the whirlwind rapidity with which she'd been whipped from Manhattan's Chinatown to the Turkish capital of Ankara the process had still managed to
entail lots of time sitting in airports waiting for flights. Using that time
and Wi-Fi she'd done a bit more research on her current associates. She had
discovered some interesting things about their employer. Including that he had
a reputation as a real party animal, who every couple of years made a weepy
public renunciation of his bad old ways, only to be caught in a few weeks or
months half in the bag with his face between some stripper's boobs. Annja was
experiencing more than a few second thoughts.
She shot a quick glance to Levi. He looked amiably befuddled. Still, he was
being a good sport about it all.
He reminded her why she still felt committed to this project, increasingly
weird and possibly, well,
doomed
as it seemed. There was his enthusiasm.
And his innocence. And, oh, yes—the lure of uncovering ancient mysteries. And
maybe a hint of adrenaline rush. Just a teensy, tiny bit.
"General Orga," Larry Taitt said with horrible playful-puppy
brightness, "the key point here is that we're relying on you to smooth our
way east to Mount Ararat. And I'm sure our fate, and the fate of our
expedition, couldn't be in more capable hands."
Annja looked at the floppy kid—she couldn't help thinking of him that way—with
a certain expanded understanding. He may be a happy-go-lucky goof who'd had the
bad judgment to lock himself into weird religion and weirder associates. But he
clearly had something on the ball.
Orga was frowning still, but now it was with a sort of generalized concern.
"I will certainly do what I can for this expedition," he intoned.
"It is, after all, for science."
"Science," Wilfork said. He raised his glass of beer. "I'll
drink to that."
Leif Baron, who had apparently decided to reclaim the "good cop"
role, slapped his hands noisily on his thighs and stood. "We know you
will, General Orga. Thanks for coming out."
Everybody else stood, so Annja did likewise. She wasn't sure what had actually
been accomplished here. If anything. But now Baron and Bostitch were showing
all hail-fellow camaraderie to the general, who himself was looking as jovial
as he could with those bloodhound eyes. She was not a woman who yielded to
gender stereotypes, for either sex, and if anything tended to consider herself,
and be accepted as, one of the boys. But this scene baffled her. Maybe it was
some male-bonding ritual she hadn't encountered yet.
She found herself out in the curving hallway walking away. Aside from the
smoking thing the Ankara Sheraton was a fabulous hotel. She felt a strong
yearning to return to the extravagant comfort of a room she never could have
afforded on her own. Then maybe a few laps in the huge indoor swimming pool
would get her tuned up again.
"Ms. Creed," an Australian-accented voice called from behind her.
"Wait one, if you'd be so kind."
She stopped and turned. Robyn Wilfork lumbered after her. His gait resembled
that of a none-too-well-trained dancing bear. She couldn't attribute it to
alcohol: he had a long torso and short, bowed legs for his height.
Well, maybe some of it was alcohol, considering how hard he'd been hitting the
beer back in the room.
"Might I offer you a drink?" he asked. "The hotel sports an
altogether splendid bar."
She was on the cusp of answering that she thought maybe he'd had enough in that
department when she saw a knowing look come into his blue eyes.
"Nothing improper, I assure you," he said hastily. "It just
strikes me that, since we appear to be the odd ones out—quite a striking fact
itself, in this company—we might profitably get to know one another."
"Ah," she said, "sure. Why not?"
* * *
THE COPPER BAR OF ANKARA'S
Sheraton Hotel and Convention Center was a splendid bar, Annja had to admit.
The bar proper was a highly polished teak arc beneath outward-expanding
concentric rings of copper hung from the ceiling. It was such a striking effect
that she actually permitted, not altogether in accordance with her better judgment,
the journalist to buy her a glass of wine. Having placed her order with the
bartender, who appeared to be French, she followed Wilfork as he rolled like a
sailor in a high sea to one of the blue-gray chairs. These proved to be quite
comfortable.
The bar was almost empty. Soft chamber music played in the background. While
the afternoon view outside the tall windows was pleasant, prominently featuring
an outdoor pool and the tall tower in which the rooms were located, she chose
to sit with her back to them. She always liked to be able to see the entrance
of the place she was in. The more so since there seemed to be some possible
controversy concerning their expedition.
Which wasn't totally surprising, inasmuch as the whole enterprise was
flamboyantly illegal.
"So, Mr. Wilfork," she said, "what brings you all the way from Australia?"
"Australia?" He laughed heartily. "Oh, no, no. My dear, you're
grievously wrong. I am a Kiwi, born and bred."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "I'm sorry. I guess I don't know enough to
tell a New Zealand accent from Australian one."
"You are quite forgiven. But I must say, the question you want to ask is,
what is a confirmed atheist and semi-lapsed communist doing wrapped up in all
of this religious mummery?"
That made her pull her head back and blink. "You're right. I guess that is
a better question."
"Perhaps the answer is the same as what might bring a respected American
archaeologist of decidedly skeptical bent into such an operation," he
said. "Simply, money."
She frowned slightly. "It's not so simple," she said. "Not in my
case. And anyway, what use does a communist have for money?"
"Why, all the use in the world. That turns out, perhaps, to sum up the
history of world communism in a nutshell. Besides, I told you I've become
apostate."
"And there you have it," she said, laughing. "I guess that's
fair enough. And I have to admit that in my case the answer is partially money.
But I'm legitimately interested in learning what really lies on top of that
mountain."
The waitress, a trim diminutive woman with a tight bun of gray hair who
appeared to be local, brought their drinks. "Gin and tonic with a wedge of
lime?" Annja asked. "Isn't that rather…colonialist of you?"
"Well, I could remind you again I'm a lapsed communist." He shrugged.
"Then again, I drank the same when I was fully communicant in the
faith."
He held up the highball glass in salute. "Here's to Thomas Friedman's flat
earth," he said. "Also to his flat head. What on earth ever possessed
you Americans to give that self-inflated buffoon a Pulitzer Prize?"
"I'm not the one to ask. They didn't."
He sipped, smacked his lips and sighed. "Splendid. And splendidly
retorted. You display a quickness of wit that they seem to be able to conceal
quite well on that television program of yours."
"They don't exactly encourage spontaneity. At least, not from their
resident skeptic."
"But they do in the case of the show's lead. At least if by
spontaneity
one means 'a remarkable gift for losing one's top in the most unlikely of
circumstances.'"
She laughed. She was finding Wilfork and his self-satirizing bluster not just
amusing but likable. Actually she so far found everybody on this trip, bizarre
as it was, basically likable. Except maybe Baron, with his shark eyes.
And maybe the other Rehoboam Academy types, although they were polite and
seemed a little less manically cheerful than Larry. Even if when she had been
around them so far they had mostly been subdued out of due Christian deference
to their elders. She still couldn't quite shake a distressing mental image of
them as a pack of young wolves.
"So have you decided to throw over the whole voice-of-reason thing,
then?" Wilfork asked.
She tasted the wine. It was sweet enough that she found it palatable. As far as
wine-drinking went she was fated forever to provide a handy butt for jokes by
wine snobs. She was resigned to that fate. Uncharacteristic, perhaps; but then,
it didn't matter to her much one way or another. There were lots of other, more
pressing fates to rebel against.
"Not at all, Mr. Wilfork. If you'll think back, you'll recall I said,
whatever's
really up there
. Or words to that effect."
He nodded. "So you did. So you did. What do you think's up there?"
"If I knew, would I have to go?" She shrugged. "As you said,
it's science."
"Did I? Ah, yes. My sardonic toast. Mostly I was trying to bait our
employers."
"Isn't that kind of a dangerous game? Especially considering your
background. What would they do if they found out about the whole ex-commie
thing?"
"Oh, they're well aware of that, make no mistake. Our Lieutenant Commander
Baron has access to things like secret dossiers, despite no longer being a
member of your military."
"Is he CIA?"
Emphatically Wilfork shook his head. It made his yellow-white hair flop on his
red scalp. "I'm fairly certain not. The agency rank and file seem to be
quite disenchanted with ring-in-Armageddon fundamentalists of his ilk—and in
any case, that lot appears on their way out. And bloody good riddance, too. But
he still contrives to be plugged into a good old boys' network. It may just be
among SEALs and other special-operations types. You know how warriors are—blood
is thicker than water, unless it's that of bloody foreigners."
Belatedly Annja was having a cold flash at the prospect of those gray flat eyes
scanning
her
dossier.
"How did they happen to hire you as their official chronicler?" Annja
asked, eager to steer the conversation in a different direction.
"Back when I was a prominent international left-wing journalist I was
often critical of Mr. Bostitch's attempts to influence foreign
policy—especially since they all seemed peculiarly geared toward enhancing his
own defense contracts. Also, if I may flatter myself, I proved something of a
thorn in the side of special-operations murderers Mr. Baron so joyously served
before deciding the grass was greener on the civilian-contracting side of the
perpetual-war fence. I think it was because that established my objectivity—at
least, gave credibility to the notion I wouldn't slant my reportage to suit my
employers, even though of late I've become noted for my harsh criticism of my
former comrades. All of it quite sincere, by the way—a bunch of humorless
dolts, and most of them unacknowledged fascists.
"But I digress. A frequent weakness of mine. One among many." He
sipped his drink.
"Also, in much of my recent writing I've been most critical of Islam,
especially the more violent sectarians. That's made me more attractive to a
good many people to whom I was once distinctly persona non grata. And finally,
I suspect a certain element of revenge, as it were, my former foes making me
subordinate to them."
"They must be paying you well."
He beamed. "Oh, they are. They are."
His expression turned troubled. He stared into his half-emptied glass as if
seeking oracle there. "I only hope it's enough," he said. "I
confess, I doubt things will proceed near as smoothly as our beloved pet
Turkish army general is at such pains to assure us they will."
He tossed back the rest of his drink. It had no visible effect on him. He set
the empty glass on the table with a decisive
thunk
.
"Ah, well," he said. "Our vicissitudes should make a ripping
story, anyway. Perhaps I'll win a journalistic prize of my own. Or at least get
a bestseller for my pains. A decent return on the sale of one's soul, wouldn't
you say?"