Levon's Time Page 3

  The sad-eyed girl was out of American Eagle now and into the main corridor again. She turned right rather than left. Her path led away from the food court toward a destination in the west end of the mall. There were more items on her shoplifting list.

  The phone in Merry’s jeans pocket buzzed and shuddered. She pulled it out and opened it. It was the last flip-phone in the civilized world, according to Sandy.

  “Are you in the parking lot?” Merry said, talking as she walked.

  “I’m in the car. What the hell?” Sandy’s voice rose an octave as she spoke.

  “Head for the entrance between Johnny Rockets and Reebok.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Just drive around till you see it and park at the curb.”

  “How do you know where it is? You’ve never been here before.”

  “I looked at the directory.”

  “Yeah, for like a second.”

  “Just do it, Sandy.”

  “Okay, Nancy Drew. Oh—”

  Merry snapped the phone closed and replaced it in her pocket. The girl was fifty feet ahead of her, standing at the opening to a Calvin Klein store. Merry picked up the pace and caught up with her as she stepped toward the security detectors. For the first time, Merry wondered how the girl was getting past the panels that broke each store entrance into chutes. Each store had them, yet the girl sailed through without setting them off.

  The girl’s head snapped around when Merry took her wrist. Her eyes went saucer-wide. The muscles held in Merry’s grip tightened.

  “¿Quieres venir conmigo?” Merry asked.

  The girl’s eyes looked past Merry. A pair of security guards, a man and a woman, stood speaking before a coffee kiosk. They wore white uniform shirts with the gaudy mall logo on the shoulders. Belts sagged under the weight of radio equipment, mace canisters, and stun guns.

  “No los mires. Quieres dejar aqui. ¿Quieres venir conmigo?” Merry said, strengthening her grip on the girl’s wrist.

  The girl looked at her, then back down the mall corridor, eyes searching the approaching shoppers.

  When the girl’s gaze returned to her, Merry said, “Esos hombres no te encontrarán si nos vamos ahora.”

  The girl was panting now, her throat quivering rapidly. Her pupils were practically twirling in her head as she weighed the unexpected range of options suddenly presented to her.

  “Come on,” Merry said. She yanked the girl’s wrist, and together they moved at a fast walk toward the next bisecting corridor and the northwest exit.

  7

  “What is your name?”

  “William Brett Hogue,” Levon lied.

  “That is what it says on your passport.”

  “Because that’s my name,” Levon said.

  “You are Canadian?”

  “Yes. Moosejaw, Saskatchewan,” Levon lied again.

  “Mooze-chaw?”

  “Yes.”

  The bald man had removed his black jacket. He wiped sweat from his scalp with a hand towel offered him by a subordinate, then leaned on the table and fixed Levon with his gaze. Levon sat opposite with his wrists cuffed behind him, the chain threaded through the bars of a steel chair.

  The room was a windowless cell in the basement of the Altınüzüm police station. They’d stripped him down to his boxers. His clothing and the contents of his rucksack were spread out on a second table. His back and ribs were covered with red bruises, which were turning blue. They’d tuned him up more on the ride here, an expert but perfunctory job. They’d made certain not to strike his face, but for that one sidelong kick. It didn’t hurt when he breathed, so he knew his ribs were intact. There’d be blood when he pissed; he was sure of that.

  “You are spy. You work for the opposition,” Baldy said. He meant anyone who didn’t agree with Erdoğan, the current president.

  “I work with Care-Euro,” Levon lied. It was a humanitarian organization based in Brussels.

  “That is what your papers say, but they have never heard of you, William Hogue.”

  It was Baldy’s turn to lie. Levon was sure that Care-Euro didn’t have a comprehensive list of all its volunteers. And they’d never share it with the Turkish secret police, even if they did. He was certain that was who was dealing with. The Millî İstihbarat Teşkilâtı. The signature black suits gave them away. The real success of a secret police that wants to oppress a population is to make them not a secret at all. These guys operated in plain sight to make arrests and hold suspects indefinitely as authorized by the National Assembly in Ankara. And, since Erdoğan had the assembly in a stranglehold, they were the president’s bully boys at home and abroad.

  “Maybe my paperwork is still moving through channels,” Levon said.

  “You think because you are a foreigner, a Westerner, it gives you special privileges. You can assault a policeman with immunity?” He probably meant impunity. His English was excellent otherwise, spoken with a distinct Harrow accent.

  “He was raping a little girl.”

  “He was interrogating a suspect!” Baldy slammed the table with the flat of his hand. The resulting boom made his subordinate leap in response.

  “I’d like to speak to someone at the Canadian consulate,” Levon said.

  “You will speak to no one until you tell me the truth, William Hogue. Until you admit to me that you are not Canadian. You are not a volunteer. You are not William Hogue. Until then, you are a spy working against the legitimate government of my country and will be held in secret, tried in secret, and imprisoned in secret.”

  “You’re going to be sorry when Ottawa hears about this.”

  Baldy’s face flushed purple.

  “Fuck your Ottawa!” He reached across the table, and this time, the flat of his hand struck Levon. Anticipating the blow, Levon ducked his head while turning his face away. The policeman’s fingers struck the hardest part of Levon’s skull. It stung enough to make Baldy wince.

  “I want to speak to my consulate,” Levon said.

  Baldy made a fist, and the flesh around his lips turned white. He turned and walked from the cell, leaving his subordinate uncertain of what to do. Finally, the man followed his superior from the room, leaving Levon alone in the cell to weigh his meager options.

  8

  “What are we doing? What are we doing here? What are we actually doing?” Sandy was panicking as she piloted the minivan north on Huntsville Highway through beep-and-creep traffic.

  In the rear seat, the dark-eyed girl was uttering a stream of rapid-fire prayers or apologies or who knew what. Merry couldn’t follow most of it.

  “I was right. Those guys aren’t related to her,” Merry said. She was turned in her seat, watching the girl rock back and forth, tears in her eyes. Her little hands clutched the crumpled Gap bag like a life preserver.

  “You got that from what she’s saying? I had three years of Spanish, and it sounds like blah blah blah to me!”

  “She told me in the parking lot while we were waiting for you.”

  “How can you understand her?”

  “Homeschooling.”

  “Who taught you Español? Uncle Fern?”

  Merry shrugged. “Univision. Telemundo. I just learned it.”

  Traffic was picking up. The wipers slapped back and forth against the salty slush sprayed on the windshield by passing trucks. Sandy took a deep breath, let it out, and forced her hands to relax on the wheel. They hurt from the white-knuckle grip she’d been maintaining since they’d pulled off the outlet lot.

  “So, what are we doing with her? You can’t just kidnap someone,” Sandy said. Her voice had returned to normal, along with her breathing. Her fingers tapped the wheel.

  “Those two kidnapped her. Or bought her like a slave. I’m not sure yet.” Merry watched the blue road signs for the next exit go by.

  “We need to take her to the police,” Sandy said.

  “We’re not doing that. Not until we know more.”

  “Up to this moment, we haven
’t done anything wrong.”

  “She could accuse us of helping her shoplift.”

  “Well, she’s not coming to my house!” Sandy squeaked. She was strangling the steering wheel again.

  “Take the next exit, Sandy.” Merry pointed at the exit lane to the right.

  “So, we’re turning her in?”

  “No. I’m hungry, and so is she. There’s a Wendy’s off this exit.”

  They couldn’t help but stare at the girl as she packed away two doubles with cheese, a cup of chili, all of her fries, and half of Merry’s. She was working on her second Frosty.

  “When’s the last time she ate?” Sandy asked.

  “Look at her. She hasn’t had regular meals in a long while,” Merry said. She pushed her fry carton closer to the girl, who nodded her thanks.

  “Or she’s sick.”

  “No one who’s sick eats like that, Sandy. Those two men have been treating her like a stepchild.”

  “All right. But what are we gonna do? I mean, with her?” Sandy nodded toward the girl.

  “Drop her off with me. I’ll tell Uncle Fern something.”

  “That she followed you home? She’s not a puppy.”

  “I’ll tell him the truth, then.”

  “And he’ll be okay with that? Having an illegal for a sleepover? Breaking the law?”

  “Breaking the law’s nothing new for the Cades,” Merry replied.

  The straw in the Frosty croaked and squeaked as the girl went for the dregs. Merry touched her hand gently. The girl looked up; she had a ketchup mustache smeared on her upper lip. Merry handed her a napkin and mimed wiping her mouth. The girl’s face darkened. She took the napkin and cleaned her mouth and chin.

  “Mas? Um, mas Frosty?” Merry said.

  “No mas. Muchas gracias.” A smile quivered at the corner of her mouth.

  “I hate to say this, but she smells, too,” Sandy said, nose wrinkled.

  “God knows how she’s been living. That dress isn’t helping.” The print dress was stained dark under the armpits and at the neck.

  “Plus, it’s out of season, and two sizes too big,” Sandy said, with ever the eye for fashion.

  “She’s only a size smaller than me. Go out to the car and get her a pair of jeans and that sweater. I’ll take her to the ladies’ room to wash up.”

  “If only to make the rest of the ride home bearable,” Sandy agreed. She slid from the booth and went out to the lot. The girl turned, nervous, not sure why the taller gringa was leaving.

  “¿Bano? ¿Lávate? ¿Jabón?” Merry asked.

  The girl blushed again, and she nodded.

  Merry cleared the table and threw out their cups and wrappers. The girl followed her to the ladies’ room, where Merry showed her to a stall with a toilet and sink. Merry mimed stripping off the dress and washing. She gave the girl her comb.

  The girl was in the stall running water when Sandy entered with one of the bags from the outlet. The girls picked out jeans, a belt, and the sweater. Also, a pair of sneakers to replace the sandals the girl wore. They didn’t have socks, but the sneakers would do to cover her feet.

  “They had her dressed for the beach in December,” Sandy said as Merry handed the clothes over the stall door.

  “So she couldn’t run away. Probably never seen snow and ice in her life,” Merry said.

  They waited, listening to the water run and the toilet flush. Neither entirely covered the stifled sobs. The girl exited the stall looking like a different person in the colorful print sweater, crisp new denims, and bright white New Balance sneakers. Her face and hands were clean, and her hair was combed back. She had a shy smile on her face, although her eyes were red from crying. She was holding the flowered dress and sandals in her hand.

  “Oh, you want to trash those, honey,” Sandy said, fingers pinching her nose. Merry gestured to the trash bin under the towel dispenser. The girl stuffed the dress and sandals inside.

  They walked out into the chill night air. The girl was startled when Sandy used her remote to unlock the minivan and the lights came on. Sandy, then Merry, laughed before the girl joined in, a hand covering her mouth. Merry slid the bay door of the van open for her.

  “Mi nombre es Merry. Mi amiga es Sandy ¿Cómo te llamas?”

  The girl looked from one to the other as Sandy helped her belt herself in.

  “Esperanza,” she replied.

  “Esperanza. That means ‘hope,’” Merry said.

  “Even I remember that much from class,” Sandy grumbled. “And we’re going to need all we can get.”

  9

  Levon’s trial was secret and brief.

  He was charged with espionage, terrorism, interfering with an officer of the state, assault, and conspiring to overthrow the legitimate government of Turkey. He had no legal representation and exercised his only recourse, a repeated request to speak to someone at the Canadian consulate.

  They’d returned his clothes to him, minus the contents of his pockets. His excellent but fraudulent identification papers were gone, along with his clasp knife, wallet, wristwatch, and cash. They’d also taken his boots and replaced them with a pair of hemp-soled cloth slippers. They allowed him to keep his belt, although they’d slit open the leather to find the gold maple leaf Canadian coins hidden between the layers. These convinced them that he might just be Canadian, as he claimed. An expensive ruse.

  His wrists were cuffed to a broad leather belt cinched in place around his waist and secured at the back. Thin steel cables connected the belt to manacles on his ankles through metal rings.

  His plea to contact his consulate was translated for the judge, who informed Levon through a translator that he would be allowed to speak to a representative of his government once it was established that he was no longer a threat to the state.

  “How do I establish that?” Levon asked.

  The translator conferred with the judge and came back with, “When you provide the court with the names of the others in your network of conspirators.”

  “I wasn’t part of a conspiracy. I don’t know any names to give you.”

  Whispered conversation at the bench. A blue-uniformed guard yawned from his seat in a corner of the room. The judge cut him a glare of annoyance.

  “That is what a spy, terrorist, and enemy of the state could be expected to say.”

  “So, it’s a Catch Twenty-two.”

  The translator blinked.

  “A paradox. A self-contradictory idea,” Levon explained.

  The translator nodded once and relayed this to the judge. He came back with, “Until you cooperate, you can expect no further consideration from this court.”

  “Can I at least ask how long my sentence is to be?”

  “That is entirely in your hands.”

  “And what if I offer no cooperation at all?”

  Buzzing at the bench. The judge’s frown deepened. He turned his unblinking gaze upon Levon. The translator offered, “Then you will die in Tekirdağ.”

  The trial was over.

  Three guards came to his cell in the morning. They secured him once again in cuffs, belt, and leg manacles before shoving him onto a raised stool. Two of them watched, hands on truncheons, while the third shaved Levon bald with electric clippers. They left his facial hair. The beard he had grown for protective camouflage remained in place. The scalp job was probably to differentiate him as a prisoner since he still wore the clothes he was arrested in. It wasn’t about lice, because they left the beard. Touching a man’s beard was serious business in this part of the world.

  He was led in a shuffle down steps at the back of the courthouse to a blue bus waiting in an enclosed courtyard. It was cold enough out for him to see his breath, but the inside of the bus was warm. A rich fug of sweat, urine, and tobacco hung in the air from the rows of men seated on wooden benches along either wall.

  A pair of guards shoved Levon onto a bench and secured his manacles to ring bolts in the floor. The guards left the prisoners, s
ix in addition to Levon, sitting in the gloom of the windowless bus. There was room for more men, and it looked like they would be waiting until the ride was full.

  The other men were dark. Turks or Arabs. The man directly across from Levon stared with one good eye. The other was swollen shut from a very severe and recent beating. The “no faces” rule didn’t apply to locals.

  “Hamerican?” One-Eye asked.

  “Canadian,” Levon said. He met the man’s gaze.

  One-Eye looked perplexed. He elbowed the man next to him. The man shrugged.

  “Canadian. Hockey. Tim Horton’s.”

  One-Eye’s face twisted in a scowl. He hawked loudly and spit a gobbet of phlegm, which landed between Levon’s feet.

  Levon kept eye contact with him while retreating mentally into a fugue state. It was too early to make enemies. Levon gave the man nothing, his gaze steady but neither threatening nor fearful. One-Eye lost interest and turned away to speak to his neighbor. Turkish wasn’t a language Levon was fluent in, and One-Eye was a Cypriot with a thick dialect. He could follow it enough to understand that One-Eye thought that the “Hamerican’s” chances of being murdered within a week at Tekirdağ were strong. His chance of being raped in the ass was even stronger. This caused snickers from the others.

  Levon feigned oblivious disinterest. They were all chained to rings in the floor. No one would be moving on him for the moment. Levon let himself fall deeper into his resting state, simultaneously wakeful but disengaged.

  He thought back over the previous week. In theory, crossing into Turkey over the Syrian border had been a sound tactic. He could fit into the flood of refugees as just another foreign humanitarian worker. It had been a better option than slipping over the border from Iraq after leaving Mosul. That part of the plan had worked to perfection. He had melted into the throng with barely a glance from the border guards, who were overwhelmed with processing the mobs of civilians eager to escape the civil war to the south. They were looking for young Arabic and Kurdish men of a certain dangerous age to pull aside. The Arabs because they could be members of Daesh, or ISIS, as the Americans called it. The Kurds because they were Kurds. The white guy with the Canuck flag on his backpack was waved through without a blink.