The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [223]
Arnhaldt shook his head. “You speak English?”
“Sure I spik. All Turkish boys spik Engleesh, French, Italian.” He grinned and added, “Some words I spik.”
His eyes widened as Arnhaldt placed a ten-thousand-lire note on the table. He backed off a step or two, afraid of what he wanted, but his eyes were still fastened on it.
“I need to make a telephone call,” Arnhaldt said slowly, “but I do not speak Turkish. I would like you to make the call for me. To this number.” He showed the boy the paper. The child looked at it and nodded. “You ask for Mr. Michael Kazahn. All you say is ‘Anna is on the Leonid Brezhnev at Istinye.’ You repeat this message twice and then put down the telephone.” He looked anxiously at the boy. “You understand?”
“Sure.” His head nodded up and down like an overeager puppet, his eyes still on the big-lire note that was more than he could ever hope to make in six months, even if he worked at the carpet factory.
“Repeat it,” Arnhaldt commanded.
“I ask for Mr. Michael Kazahn. I tell him Anna is on the Leonid Brezhnev at Istinye.” His hand hovered over the note.
Arnhaldt’s fist closed over it first. “After the telephone call,” he said.
The first telephone booth was out of order, and the second. “I know a shop,” the kid said, heading back up the street and into a small grocery. A tiny goat nibbled at Arnhaldt’s heels as the boy ran in, handed over his token, and asked to use the phone. Arnhaldt kicked away the goat, watching as he dialed the number and asked for Michael Kazahn. There was a wait and then the boy said his message excitedly in Turkish, repeated it quickly, and slammed down the telephone. He emerged from the shop, holding out his hand, and Arnhaldt slid the note into his sticky palm.
“Thank you, thank you, sir. You very good,” the boy called after him as Arnhaldt strode quickly away.
All he could do for the moment was wait.
Refika Kazahn noticed that her husband’s hand trembled as he put down the phone. He walked to the window of their big modern hilltop villa and stared down at the Bosphorus, bustling with ferries and the day-to-day business of European and Russian shipping.
Refika watched him, a little frown of anxiety creasing her brow. She knew Michael Kazahn’s every mood: Earlier he had been angry, excited, full of nervous energy, but now, after that telephone call, he looked a deeply troubled man. More than that—he looked like an old man. Age was something he never acknowledged, but it was a fact. They had grown old together, and their long marriage had been one of two strong individuals bonded by a deep love and respect for each other. In all those years she had never once referred to the fact that he had a crippled leg; he had always ignored his disability and therefore so had she. It had never mattered. Like his father, Michael was dynamic, larger than life, and his strange swinging walk only added to his vivid character. She watched him pityingly as he searched for his cane and then limped back across the room and sat down heavily beside her.
He said quietly, “The telephone call was from a boy. He said Anna is on the Leonid Brezhnev at Istinye. Obviously someone paid him to give me the message.”
Refika stared at him anxiously. “But who? And why?”
“I wish I knew. They must have abducted her from the airport as she arrived.” He groaned. “Why didn’t she telephone and tell us she was coming? How the hell am I going to get her out of this one?”
“You cannot do it alone,” Refika said quickly. “You need help. Call the foreign minister. Call the police. Call the Americans. Get her off that boat, Michael, or for certain they will sail to Russia with her tonight.”
Michael stared at the portrait of his father and mother on the opposite wall. Tariq looked fierce and proud in his naval uniform and the diminutive Han-Su as fragile as a Chinese sparrow in her cheongsam.
“What would you have done, eh, Father?” he bellowed. Then he laughed. “You would have listened to your wife, Han-Su,” he answered, “just as you always did.” He smiled at Refika. “And I should