A Hotel in Istanbul

A HOTEL IN ISTANBUL

PARIS-ISTANBUL, MAY 2015

Max

O nce we clear airport security, I go to the departure lounge at Charles de Gaulle to wait for our flight to Istanbul to board. Yavuz and I had gotten separated at check-in and so far, he hadn't appeared.

I stare out the window at the rain that started just as we left the Victor Hugo Museum. Dampness creeps up through my limbs as I question whether I made the right decision, taking off for a confrontation that will certainly mean the end of Faez, or me, or perhaps both of us.

For the hundredth, no maybe thousandth time, I pick up my phone. I have a text from Metin telling me the NSA and CIA still can't find out where Yavuz was in the last, blank year and a half, which is definitely bad news. As he is still my conduit to Faez, I will have to see this through.

My fingers itch to text Cress. Find out if she's safe. Tell her I'm all right. Let her know I am on my way to Istanbul. But I can't. I don't have a burner phone or the time to buy one. If she stays in Paris, at least she won't be in danger when I face Faez.

Remembering the chaos at the museum dinner, my heart sinks. I should have stayed and protected Cress. I could have made that choice, but it wasn't an option. I had to entrust her safety to JL. We discussed the possibility before the dinner. The plan was, if an attack occurred, he would stay with Cress and Micki, and I would follow any trail I could that would lead me to Faez.

My last glimpse of Cress was seeing her duck under the table. And I turned away, knowing this was as close as we were going to come to seeing a fire-eater in Paris. I followed Yavuz down the corridor and out into the Place des Vosges and my date with fate.

My mobile is easily traceable. I send a coded message to MI6, telling them where I'm going, what flight I'm on, and asking them to pass it on to Allan. Then I message Metin and Clay to tell them where I'm going, turn off the phone, take out the battery and walk into the men's room. Fortunately, it's empty, so there are no witnesses when I stamp on the mobile and crush it. I brush up all of the pieces, dump them in the loo and flush until everything disappears. A wall of isolation surrounds me as I cut my last tie.

The last boarding call sounds over the tannoy as Yavuz runs into the lounge. "Damn security," he grumbles before heading off down the gangway. I wonder if he's been calling Faez in Istanbul. If I will be ambushed at the airport. Nothing I can do now except try to get a little rest.

We aren't sitting together. Yavuz is short enough at five-seven to travel comfortably in economy while I am in business class for the extra leg room. He can't afford to sit there and I'm not feeling generous.

As soon as Yavuz and I reunite at Istanbul International Airport, I retrieve one of the many passports I always carry and stand in the visa line to pay for the paper stamp. So far I haven't seen any signs of an attack. Yavuz leans nonchalantly against a convenient wall, pulls out his mobile, checks his messages, then makes a call.

"Hello, brother," he says. "Are the arrangements set?"

Brother? I thought his brother was still in London. Then I remember he has another younger brother.

"What the…" His face darkens and his body stiffens as he moves out of earshot. Whatever is happening must not be good. After some inaudible exchanges, he pushes the phone into a pocket and strides over to where I am still in a long line.

"Sorry, Max."

"Emre?" I query.

"No. My closest friend, but like a brother. He is trying to set up a meet for you."

"I take it the news isn't good."

He shrugs. "This isn't merely a matter of snapping your fingers. It will take some time."

"And in the meantime, he may show up and try to kill me."

"A risk, for sure."

Yavuz looks down at himself. He's still wearing the dress clothes he got for the dinner. "Can't wait for you. I have to go home and change, then straighten a few things out. Meeting another contact. Where will I find you?"

Should I tell him or not? Can't make any of this work if I keep my whereabouts secret. Besides, I don't want him to know I don't trust him. "I made a reservation at the Pera Palace Hotel."

Yavuz's mouth twists. "You've come up in the world, Max. No more ratty hotels or sponging off my sister. Now you stay in one of the most lavish hotels in the city." The bitterness he expresses reinforces my misgivings.

I shrug. "Not an MI6 operative anymore. May as well be comfortable while you are making the contact."

Yavuz sighs. "Sorry. Tired. Stressed. I will come by as soon as I know something. Not sure how long the negotiations will take." He pauses. "Faez will probably set a trap. Agree to meet, and then…" He throws his arms up, as if emulating an explosion.

"We'll need to be smarter than he is."

His expression is dubious. "Like 2003?"

I run my fingers over my scalp. "No. We had no warning. This time maybe we can gain the upper hand." I don't say I thought someone on our team sold us out. Now I wonder if the traitor was Yavuz. Unlikely since his sister was one of victims. But you never know. The line inches forward.

"I'll be off then."

"I may be out finding more suitable clothes."

He gives me a curt nod and races off to find a taxi.

Visa safely pasted into my passport, I take the hour-long drive to the hotel in fierce Istanbul traffic. At the Pera Palace, I ask for the Agatha Christie room in case Allan got my message and can't stop Cress from coming with him.

Wrung out, I have to drag myself away from the desk and toward the exit. If I go to the room, I will probably fall onto the bed and sleep, so I pocket the key and walk five minutes to Istiklal Caddesi to browse the men's wear shops. Then I wander the streets for a while, reacquainting myself with a city I haven't visited since the disaster of 2003. Fortunately, this is an area I don't associate with Zehra, which makes the whole exercise more bearable.

Two hours later, I'm back at the hotel with a pair of jeans, a few golf shirts, pants and socks, and some toiletries. I changed at the shop from my suit and brogues to a second pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and some work boots. I topped it with a navy peacoat.

Throwing the coat over the back of one of the numerous chairs crowding the space, I put my few purchases into the bureau and flip on the TV. International news broadcasts have the whole Paris attack on a loop. The dead include two dinner attendees—the President of the society, and Cress' agent, who was sitting with him—and all the gunmen. Paris police took no chances.

I take a deep breath, my muscles relaxing. No mention of Cress, JL, or Micki. Allan and Inspector Poulliot must have gotten them to safety. I cross my fingers. Maybe Cress will go on to the conference in Venice. Otherwise, JL needs to take her back to Chicago. Switching off the box, I appreciate the silence—for a minute.

Then, not able to concentrate, I pace. Where the fuck is Yavuz? I expected to hear from him by now. Maybe he hasn't been able to make contact. Worse, everything could have backfired. Maybe he's dead.

I eat lahmacun, a Turkish flat-bread pizza, followed by some roasted chestnuts, but it only satisfies me briefly before my stomach rumbles again. I bring back d?ner, beer, and a bagful of bagel-like simit. Sinking onto the couch, I open a bottle and nibble on one of the ubiquitous sesame-crusted circles.

After a second simit, I recommence pacing, thankful the room is huge. I check another news broadcast. No reports of dead men turning up in alleyways. I unwrap the d?ner, pick at a little of the still warm, greasy meat, then my stomach decides to rebel. I re-wrap the whole thing and toss it into the trash. The smell of grease and roasted lamb pervades the room, so I retrieve the slimy package from the bin to dispose of elsewhere.

Easier said than done. After a fruitless search for a service room where I can toss the offending article, I take it out of the hotel and eventually find a rare municipal bin. Then I trudge back to the hotel and ask if there are any messages. There aren't any, so I trail up to my room. The ridiculously elegant space feels cold and empty without Cress.

I sit alone in an oh-so-British chintz armchair, regret flooding me while I think about my impulsive action. When Yavuz suggested taking off for Istanbul to confront Faez, I thought it was a brilliant idea. Whether Yavuz was on my side or not, he could lead me to my goal. Now, waiting for something to happen, I realize how foolish I've been.

Yavuz. Had I trusted him because of my guilt over Zehra? Was I wrong in suspecting him now? A prickling sensation has me rubbing the nape of my neck.

The sudden shock when the hotel telephone rings propels me across the room, hands shaking as I pick up the receiver. I fumble, trying to push the communication button.

"Yes?" My voice grates from hours and hours of not speaking.

"Mr. Grant?" The voice is deferential.

"Yes." Impatience floods through me and I clench the handset. Skip the niceties and put the call through.

"We have a group of people in the lobby asking for you."

Not Yavuz, then. I visualize a clutch of Turkish security officers, or perhaps gunmen. Either way, this doesn't sound good.

I stall. "Did they say who they are?"

After a pause, the desk clerk comes back on the line. "There are two men and two women. One British, two Americans, and a Frenchman."

My heart lifts, then sinks. Frustration overwhelms me and I snap, "Didn't you ask their names?"

"Sorry, sir. I'll ask now." A mumbling noise alerts me he has put his hand over the mouthpiece.

Finally, after what seems like hours, he says, "The British gentlemen informed me his name is Allan Mason."

Of course it is. Thank God they got out, and he received the message about my whereabouts. But why is my troupe of raggle-taggle gypsies with him?

"Send them up," I tell him. Then I sink back, exhausted, onto the bed and listen for the nearby elevator.

Cress

Our taxi pulls up to the seven-story Pera Palace Hotel, in the heart of Beyo?lu. On my bucket list as a destination, I never expected my introduction to be like this, chasing Max across Europe after being shot at in Paris. Anger at how he left me behind wars with relief that he's still alive.

Pain runs through me like hot lead. I know he thinks his job is to protect me, but I'm not an assignment. All he really needs to do is to love me.

As soon as I see him in the doorway of the Agatha Christie Room, my knees buckle with relief. He catches me as I topple. The twist of his lips turns to a radiant smile as he pulls me in, frowning over my head at the rest of the crew.

"Shove off." He tries to shut the door.

Allan wedges his foot into the door frame. "Not a chance, mate."

Max jerks back. Allan has probably never called him "mate" before in their lives.

A deep rumble of laughter shakes his chest. It feels like a minor earthquake as he pulls me backwards to let in the horde. JL is the last to enter. He turns, looks down the hallway, then closes the door with a decisive snick, turns the lock and fastens the mechanism that only allows the door to open an inch.

We go through the long hallway, Max never taking his arm from around my waist. Everywhere, pictures and knickknacks surround us, including antique furniture and shelves of Christie's books. A vintage Underwood typewriter catches my eye, and I try to pull away and examine it, but Max's grip is like an iron hoop around me.

"You can check it out it later," he whispers. "It's for atmosphere. Christie never used it."

"Shatter all my illusions, why don't you?" The corners of my mouth turn up in a grin belies my words. I elbow Max lightly in the ribs. "Did you pick the Pera Palace because Ian Fleming stayed here?" Max has a James Bond obsession. He even tried to buy a 1930 Blower Bentley, Bond's first car, but with only fifty-five of them made, he hasn't been able to fulfill that wish.

"Not really. When MI6 sent me to Istanbul, I stayed in seedy hotels, and then…" He swallows convulsively, rolls his shoulders, and continues. "And then I lived with Zehra." He's still holding on to me and I rub his back.

"Let's sit down." JL gestures to the various pieces of furniture. Max heads to a large, red velvet armchair and sits down with me in his lap. Allan grimaces. JL and Micki cozy up on the long red velvet couch facing the chair. Ever the odd man out, Allan grabs a desk chair and angles it, to face us. A faded chintz armchair, angled toward the windows, looks forlorn.

A entirely unwarranted sense of peace comes over me. Even though I know we aren't safe, Max's presence envelopes me with a sense of security. I think about my anger when he disappeared. His innate desire for secrecy and his overprotectiveness have caused most of our clashes. Every time I'm convinced we are finally partners, he proves we aren't. And yet, thinking about the guilt he has carried all these years over Zehra's death, I can't blame him. I don't want him to carry the burden of losing anyone else.

With his lips pressed to the nape of my neck, he says, "Do you forgive me for coming here without you?"

I take a few breaths, then answer. "Yes. I didn't want to, but I understand." I wrap my fingers around his. "Do you forgive me for following?"

"No," he breathes against me. "Do I wish you were somewhere safe? Of course. But I've been aching ever since I left you in Paris and hoping you would be here." He glares around the room. "I wanted to wind up the whole Faez thing before you arrived."

"And with that segue," Allan says, "it's time to make a plan."

Max Grant is a former MI6 operative with a new life in Chicago, a promising relationship with author Cress Taylor, and a past that's about to catch up with him. Ten years ago, Max was caught in an ambush in an Istanbul alley, where most of his team died, and his testimony put a terrorist mastermind in prison. Now, the terrorist has escaped, and he's coming after Max. As Max is inexorably drawn toward confrontation, he must race to stop the mastermind before he eliminates them both. If you like travel and pulse-pounding suspense, combined with a continuing romance, you'll love At the Crossroads . At the Crossroads is book two in the Global Security Unlimited series.

Initially, I planned on having the book end in Istanbul, but in the end, my editor convinced me to wind it up in Paris instead. Everything from this scene until the end of the book all disappeared from the published version of the novel.