Istanbul crossing, p.1
Istanbul Crossing, page 1
Praise for Fire on the Island
“Smith offers the perfect blend of intrigue, romance, and travelogue.” – Publishers Weekly
“Timothy Jay Smith’s Fire on the Island: A Romantic Thriller follows a gay Greek-American FBI agent Nick Damigos to a gorgeous town in the Greek islands to investigate a mysterious arsonist. More than the mystery of who’s setting the fires and why, Smith creates a sensitive portrait of a small Greek community set against the refugee crisis and Greece’s suffering economy. It’s the town itself – a chorus of voices – that is the most compelling character and our reason for ‘traveling’ to Greece.” – Lambda Literary Review
Gold Medal, 2017 Faulkner-Wisdom Competition for the Novel
Praise for The Fourth Courier
“Sharply drawn characters, rich dialogue, and a clever conclusion bode well for any sequel.” – Publishers Weekly
“Smith skillfully bridges police procedural and espionage fiction, crafting a show-stealing sense of place and realistically pairing the threats of underworld crime and destabilized regimes.” – Booklist
Finalist, Best Gay Mystery, 2020 Lambda Literary Awards
Finalist, Faulker-Wisdom Competition for the Novel-in-Progress
Praise for A Vision of Angels
“A taut thriller that opens as a terrorist threat in Jerusalem on Easter Sunday brings together an intriguing quartet of characters – an Israeli war hero, a Palestinian farmer, an American war correspondent and an Arabian-Christian grocer…” – New York Daily News
Winner, Paris Prize for Fiction
Finalist, Foreword Reviews’ Book of the Year Award
Shortlisted, Faulkner-Wisdom Competition for the Novel
Finalist, American Book Fest’s International Book Awards
Praise for Cooper’s Promise
“Literary dynamite…” – Kirkus Reviews
One of Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books of 2012
“[Cooper Chance is] a complex character in the vein of classical leading men. If Humphrey Bogart were alive today, he’d be attracted to this role.” – Fresh Voices International
Past Winners of the Leapfrog Global Fiction Prize
2023: Istanbul Crossing by Timothy Jay Smith
2023: The Aves by Ryane Nicole Granados*
2022: Rage & Other Cages by Aimee LaBrie
2022: Jellyfish Dreaming by D. K. McCutchen*
2021: But First You Need a Plan by K L Anderson
2021: Lost River, 1918 by Faith Shearin*
My Sister Lives in the Sea by Faith Shearin*
2020: Wife With Knife by Molly Giles
2019: Amphibians by Lara Tupper
2018: Vanishing: Five Stories by Cai Emmons
2018: Why No Goodbye? by Pamela L. Laskin*
2017: Trip Wire: Stories by Sandra Hunter
2016: The Quality of Mercy by Katayoun Medhat
2015: Report from a Burning Place by George Looney
2015: The Solace of Monsters by Laurie Blauner
2014: The Lonesome Trials of Johnny Riles by Gregory Hill
2013: Going Anywhere by David Armstrong
2012: Being Dead in South Carolina by Jacob White
2012: Lone Wolves by John Smelcer*
2011: Dancing at the Gold Monkey by Allen Learst
2010: How to Stop Loving Someone by Joan Connor
2010: Riding on Duke’s Train by Mick Carlon*
2009: Billie Girl by Vickie Weaver
* Young Adult | Middle Grade Fiction
These titles can be bought at: https://bookshop.org/shop/leapfrog
Contents
Title Page
DAY 1
DAY 2
DAY 3
DAY 4
DAY 5
DAY 6
DAY 7
DAY 8
DAY 9
About the Author
Also by the author
Copyright
DAY 1
Ahdaf dropped a coin in the tip bowl and left the hammam. The hectic street quickly robbed him of the languor he had enjoyed stretched out on a hot marble slab. He dodged pushcarts and deliverymen, some shirtless in the warming day, and jumped out of the way every time a boy, clinging to the back of a wagon piled high with boxes, hurtled down the hill with nothing more to brake him than his heels in thin sandals.
He could hear the customers at Leyla’s Café before he turned the corner. A dozen or so men, seated at outdoor tables, flailed at the smoky air around them as they gestured telling stories or making a point. Everyone was loud. A few vaped, exhaling volcanic clouds with sickly sweet scents.
Inside the café, the air was fresher but the room no less animated. The customers – mostly dark men like himself with some amount of facial hair – competed to be heard. Ahdaf squeezed between tables and dodged outstretched legs to reach the “cowboy bar” – a short counter in a cubbyhole so nicknamed because, on the walls around it, Leyla had tacked pictures of Hollywood’s most celebrated cowboys. On the inside of an overhead arch, she’d nailed a line of cowboy hats.
The bar’s three stools were predictably empty. Beer was acceptable to be drunk at the tables, but for that conservative refugee neighborhood – unlike most of cosmopolitan Istanbul – sitting at a bar drinking anything was an affront verging on sinful. That didn’t stop anyone, however, from recharging their phones with the power strips that Leyla snaked across it. Only one socket was available, and Ahdaf claimed it before someone else did. His charge was in the red zone, down to three percent – suicidal, given that his own life depended on his battery’s.
Leyla stubbed out a cigarette and flipped her black hair off her shoulder. “Are you coming from the hammam?”
“How can you tell?”
“You smell like soap.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s better than you smelled yesterday.”
“Was it bad?”
“You’re not wearing your usual blue shirt, either.”
“I washed it. This is my backup while it’s drying.”
A stranger, pushing up to the bar, said, “Sounds like you could use a third shirt.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ahdaf saw that he was older but not by much, and he could’ve passed for Turkish, though his accent said he wasn’t.
“I only have two hangers,” Ahdaf replied, not looking at the man. He didn’t care to engage with anyone who wasn’t a potential client, and the man was too well dressed to be a refugee.
“Do you want a mint tea?” Leyla asked him.
“Tea?” She knew Ahdaf would want a beer. Then it dawned on him that maybe there was something amiss about the stranger, and that was her signal. “Yeah, and with an extra sugar,” he said. “My body weight tells me I’m undernourished.”
“That’s an extra lira.”
“Okay, no extra sugar. I don’t want you getting rich off me.”
Leyla laughed. “Get rich off you? I couldn’t get rich off all you guys in here put together, no matter what I was selling!” She dropped a third sugar cube into his glass. “On the house.”
He frowned as he stirred his tea. “We had jobs in Syria. I could’ve made you rich then.”
The stranger offered his hand. “I’m Selim Wilson. Sam, if you prefer.”
Ahdaf ignored his hand. “Why would I prefer ‘Sam’?”
“It’s what I was called growing up.”
“You changed it to Selim?”
“My mother’s Turkish. Selim is on my birth certificate.”
“While you guys decide on his name, I’ve got other customers,” Leyla said.
“Before you go, do you have cold beer?” Selim asked.
She looked at Ahdaf when she replied, “Only one is cold.”
“I only want one.”
“It’s mine,” Ahdaf spoke up.
“You’re drinking tea.”
He took a sip and pushed the cup aside. “I preordered the beer. Very cold.”
“I tell you what, you guys share it.” Leyla uncapped the bottle and planted it between them along with two glasses, before squeezing around the end of the stubby bar to serve tables.
“It’s all yours if you want it,” Selim said.
“We can share it,” Ahdaf replied.
“Then I insist that it’s my treat.” Selim angled the glasses as he poured, to produce only thin heads of foam. He passed one to Ahdaf.
“Thanks,” he said and took a sip. “Are you American?”
“Is my accent that obvious?”
“It’s an accent. I like to know where people are from.”
“It’s American,” Selim confirmed.
“If you’re an American, you must know who some of these guys are,” Ahdaf remarked, referring to the cowboy pictures.
“I know a lot of them. Not personally, of course, but from the movies.”
“Maybe you should take a selfie in a cowboy hat and stick it on the wall,” Ahdaf suggested.
Selim snorted. “It takes more than being an American wearing a cowboy hat to meet Leyla’s standards. I think you also need to be a movie star.”
“I think she just likes cowboys,” Ahdaf replied. Now that they were talking, he couldn’t help but notice how handsome Selim was, his dark beard groomed and his eyes chestnut-brown. “I don’t think all those came from movie stars,” he added, pointing to the cowboy hats nailed overhead. “Have you been to Leyla’s before?”
Selim nodded. “Yeah, occasionally.”
“I’ve never seen you in here, and it’s basically my office.”
“Obviously we work different hours.”
“I’ve also never seen another American in here.”
“I’m Turkish-American. Maybe that explains it. Or maybe the fact that I wanted to meet you.”
Ahdaf’s danger alarm went off. He’d met lots of strangers at Leyla’s. Refugees were his clients, and her café was where they knew to find smugglers to help them make the crossing to Greece. Selim, he sensed, wasn’t looking for that kind of help. “Why did you want to meet me?” he asked.
“I’ve heard you get things done.”
“What things?”
“Moving people.”
“Who told you that?”
“A lot of people could have told me.”
“But who did? I like to know how people find me.”
“He. She. It. I don’t remember.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“I need a reliable route for people to escape.”
“Escape what?”
“Turkey.”
“So you’re a smuggler, too?”
“Not like you, or why would I need you?”
“You don’t need me. Lots of guys do what I do.” Ahdaf checked his phone. “It’s charged enough,” he reported and dropped it into his daypack. “Are you CIA?”
“I can’t say who I work for. Not until we have an agreement.”
“Then I guess I’ll never know. Thanks for the beer.” He slipped off the barstool.
“Just remember, Ahdaf Jalil –”
“How do you know my name?” Ahdaf interrupted him.
“Just remember,” Selim started again, “what you call ‘moving people’ is trafficking to the rest of the world. Turkey could deport you back to Syria. Back to Raqqa and ISIS. Back to a push off a high rooftop.”
“Why have you come looking for me?”
“I told you, I want your help.”
“I don’t want to help you.” Ahdaf stood to leave.
“Take this.” Selim forced a business card on him.
“I don’t want it.”
“Sometime you might need help. Not everyone is a nice guy like you.”
Ahdaf glanced at the card. No name. Only a telephone number with a local prefix. “Do I ask for ‘Sam’ or ‘Selim’?”
“You don’t ask for anyone. You leave your name and a message, and where to find you if you need help.”
“I won’t need help,” Ahdaf said, but he stuck the card in his pocket anyway. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Maybe next time I can treat you to a meal,” Selim offered.
“I’m never that hungry.”
Ahdaf made his way to the door of the lively café. He knew some eyes trailed him. Nobody’s business here was entirely private, as most of it was conducted on the street. Everybody kept an eye on each other, and not always to be helpful. Selim hadn’t said he was CIA, but he was somebody like that, and somebody in the café probably knew exactly who he was.
The door hadn’t closed behind him before his phone started ringing.
An hour later, Ahdaf was pacing the loading dock at the central bus station. The family was late. Nothing had been easy for Ahdaf to arrange for them because they insisted on traveling all together, not letting the father go first to establish a beachhead where the others could join him. For Ahdaf, that meant more seats on a bus, more lifejackets, more spaces on a raft – all of which were in heavy demand. It was mid-autumn, and already on some days the weather made it treacherous to cross. In another month, it would be an option only for the very desperate.
Ahdaf had bribed the bus driver to save seats for the family. He tried to promise the same service to all his customers, and he pretty much could. He’d learned which drivers he could trust to save the seats until the door hissed and closed.
He checked his watch.
Ten minutes.
Ahdaf looked around. The driver wouldn’t wait for anybody. Certainly the seat-jumpers wouldn’t. The instant the door hissed, preparing to close, the passengers standing in the aisle would wrangle for the three vacant seats, claiming maladies they didn’t have to assert their priority.
The driver blew the horn. Five-minute warning.
Ahdaf caught his eye through the windshield and shrugged. He didn’t know where the family was. Then there they were, scurrying along the platform looking for the bus to Assos, rushed and encumbered; an infant in her mother’s arms, the father and teenage son hauling backpacks.
“Here!” Ahdaf waved to catch their attention. “HERE! HERE!”
They hurried up to him.
He chuckled when he saw Meryem’s inflated belly. “You weren’t so big yesterday,” he said.
“You told us to make her look more pregnant,” Yusuf, her husband, reminded him.
“And you did! I hope her lifejacket still fits!”
“My lifejacket won’t fit?” Meryem asked, alarmed.
“I’m joking,” I reassured her. “A lifejacket fits around the shoulders, and it’s your belly that’s bigger.”
Yusuf grinned. “It’s a life preserver for our new baby. Extra protection!”
“A life preserver?” Ahdaf asked, puzzled.
Yusuf poked his wife in the side, denting the inflated tube hiding under her rust-colored robe, at the same time revealing the outline of a life preserver.
“Yusuf, don’t!” she said. “People might be looking.”
Two short toots of the horn. The two-minute warning.
“Call the number I gave you as soon as you get off the bus. Your contact will be waiting for you.”
“Who is it?” Yusuf asked.
“I never know. You have a backup number if there’s a problem, and if there’s still a problem, call me. Here, take these.” Ahdaf handed out bright pink caps with sun visors. He even had one for the baby.
Issa, a lanky fourteen-year-old with a wispy moustache, looked dubious. “I’m supposed to wear a pink hat?”
“It’s the only color they had. Besides, you won’t care when you get to Lesvos and have to walk 70 kilometers in the hot sun.”
Meryem paled. “We must walk 70 kilometers? I really am pregnant.”
“I’ll carry you if I have to,” Yusuf reassured her.
Issa put the cap on backwards, having to pull it hard over his mop of curly black hair. “It’s too tight!”
“Tight’s good. You won’t lose it if there’s wind.”
“Wait,” the teenager said, and turned the cap around to pull some hair through the band in the back. “Cool or uncool?” he asked Ahdaf.
“Very cool. It’ll never fall off.” Ahdaf caught the driver’s eye again, who nodded. Time to board.
“Thank you again, Ahdaf,” Meryem said, and did an unexpected thing for a Syrian woman: she kissed him on his cheek. “You are a kind man to help my family.”
Yusuf grasped his hand with both of his. “You’ve helped save my family,” he said.
“It’s you who saved your family. You got them away from the war. I’m only helping a little.”
They touched their hearts and Yusuf followed his wife onto the bus.
Issa, the last to board, pointed to his cap.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Pink?”
“You’ll be glad to have it, pink or not. Besides, you might start a trend.”
The boy grinned. “Cool. Thanks for helping my family.”
They shook hands before Issa bounded up the steps to sit across the aisle from his parents in the front row. As they all waved goodbye, the driver stared at Meryem’s pronounced belly. He glanced in the rearview mirror to ask the passengers, “Is there a midwife on the bus?”
Ahdaf heard a few nervous laughs as the door hissed and closed. The driver backed out of the bus bay and drove off. Ahdaf waved again, though he couldn’t see the family through the glazed windows. He hoped they saw him, because he knew how every act of kindness, no matter how trivial – if only a friendly wave or the offer of a sesame bar – could nurture someone’s hope that what lay ahead mightn’t be so bad.
