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room, and Gavra couldn’t help but mourn him in some way. Libarid and his late mother had been part of that stream of Armenian refugees fleeing the terror today’s hijackers had sought to revenge.
    Ludvík Mas returned to the front desk carrying a small suitcase. He handed over his key, paid his bill, then walked past his shadow and through the front door.
     
     
    On Atatürk Bulvari, passing another accident, he considered running Mas off the road. This man, who no doubt brought down a plane full of innocents, was probably going home. It was one thing in this world that Gavra could point at and, without hesitation, call wrong.
    He sped up, halving the distance.
    Once they reached the airport, he and Brano would have to go through the Turks in order to do anything, but here on the open road, Gavra could take care of Mas himself. It was an appealing option.
    Like during other moments of decision, though, Gavra flustered as the old man’s orders came back to him: Do not make contact, only follow.
    “Shit,” he muttered.
    Gavra loosened his grip on the wheel and let Mas pull farther ahead. He turned on the radio for comfort, and half-listened to pop music with lilting Arabic tones as they left town again. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel, trying to whistle with the tune, but found that it was always slightly different than he expected; it was unpredictable.
    When he thought he’d finally gotten the melody down, Mas took the exit for Atatürk International Airport.
    Gavra switched off the radio.
    Mas carried his suitcase inside. He returned his keys to a car rental desk, then went to the small TisAir desk in the departures area. He bought a ticket and smiled at the heavyset Turkish woman who sold it to him, then walked through the security check to the gates.
    Gavra approached the TisAir desk with his most winning smile. “Excuse me. I know you’re going to think this is rude, but you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
    She blushed. “Well…well, thank you.”
    “I bet this is an interesting job.”
    She snorted. “I wish. ”
    “People going all over the world, and you’re the one who puts them on the path. That’s not so bad.”
    “But I stay here.”
    “That may be true, but you meet the world through this desk. Like that man who just left. Where was he going?”
     
     
    In the arrivals lounge, the earlier frustration had become misery. Women wept beside the mullein plant, and men shouted as if they’d just wrecked each other’s cars. A squealing mother gripped Gavra’s arm, but he shook her off, heading down the corridor to the door marked GÜVENLIK. The guard nodded at him, but still refused to smile.
    Brano was alone with the fat man. On a table, a reel-to-reel tape player sat inert as both men smoked. Brano said, “Anything on Mas?”
    “He cleared out of his hotel room in the Pera Palas, and now he’s waiting for a flight back home.”
    “He’s still in the airport?”
    “Flight leaves in an hour.”
    The fat man grunted and said in his heavy accent, “I can not make the sense of it.”
    “Play it for him,” said Brano.
    The fat man got up to leave. “You do it. I can not listen more.”
    Once he was gone, Brano rewound the tape and pressed STOP. Then PLAY.
    The voice that came out was staticky, speaking English. “…and this is an order, from the Armenian Diaspora across the planet, sufferers of the genocide at the hands of the Turkish imperialists, in solidarity with our freedom-loving comrades in Palestine and West Germany…”
    “He’s reading it,” Gavra said.
    “Shh.”
    “…a hundred thousand in United States dollars and the release from United States prison of the revered Gourgen Mkrtich Yanikian.”
    Then came another man’s voice, clearer: “We understand. Just give us some time. You have enough fuel to remain in the air for—”
    “I know this! We know everything. The Armenian nation has—”
    The tape squealed as Brano held down the