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fast-forward button. “A lot of dogma here.”
    “Who’s Gourgen Yanikian?” Gavra asked.
    “American citizen, Armenian descent. Two years ago he invited the Turkish consul general and the consul to lunch at the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara, California. He shot them both with a Luger. Killed them.”
    “Right.”
    “I suspect,” said Brano, “that these people are connected to the Prisoner Gourgen Yanikian Group.”
    “I remember. Two months ago.”
    “Yes, in February they committed two acts in Beirut. They tried to bomb the Turkish Information and Tourism Bureau—it went off while police tried to defuse it. Then they set off a bomb in the Turkish Airlines offices.”
    “I thought the ASALA did that.”
    Brano shrugged. “The Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia also claimed responsibility.”
    “Too many names,” said Gavra.
    “Listen to this.”
    Brano pressed PLAY.
    The hijacker was crying now, and through the sobs he spoke Turkish that Brano translated in his monotone. “She said it. She’s one of yours. Yes. Because she knows even more. She told me. How did she know?”
    A click, then the other man said in English, “What did she say to you?”
    “Just that…that…” Brano translated, then stopped because the voice had gone silent.
    “Hello?” said the other man. “Are you still there? Come in, five-four.”
    There was no reply. Brano stared hard at the machine. “That was the last transmission before the explosion. It occurred a couple of minutes later.”
    “‘She’?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Gavra sank into a chair. “A suicide. Then why the demands?”
    “That’s the question.”
    “Then let’s talk to Mas.”
    Brano stood up.
     
     
    The fat Turk’s name was Captain Talip Evren, and he found a guard to walk them through the security check. Mas was at Gate 5 with thirty other travelers, reading an old copy of The Spark, a leg crossed over his knee.
    “Ludvík,” said Brano.
    Mas looked up, then smiled easily, losing the claustrophobia of before. “Brano. What are you doing in Istanbul?”
    “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”
    “It’s the nature of our business we seldom get answers.”
    “You were always philosophical, Ludvík.”
    “Who’s the kid?”
    Gavra said, “Captain Gavra Noukas.”
    “Noukas?” Mas bit his lip. “I’ve heard about you.”
    Brano sat in the chair next to him. “You were waiting for someone. Now you’re going back home. That’s correct?”
    “Well, your boy was following me, so I don’t suppose I should lie.”
    “I want to know what’s going on.”
    Mas folded the newspaper into his lap and spoke with the patient confidence of a much older man. “Brano. Each of us has our orders, and we follow them. Yes, I was waiting for someone, but that someone didn’t arrive. I called my contact and learned what happened. It’s a tragedy, but the fact is that my job is now over. I’m going home. You’ll no doubt be asked to do the same.”
    “How did your contact learn what happened?”
    “My contact keeps his ear to the ground.”
    A tone sounded, and a uniformed woman at a podium called, “Flight number 603—”
    Mas stood. “Let the Turks take care of this. They have an admirable police force.” He shook Brano’s hand, then Gavra’s. His grip was sweaty. “Good to meet you, young man. And stick with Comrade Sev. He’s the best there is.”
     
     
    That afternoon, Gavra sat at the Hotel Erboy’s small rooftop café, looking over the city while Brano used the telephone at the front desk. His vista included the mouth of the Golden Horn and thick-settled Beyolu; in the foreground was a pair of handsome young Germans drinking vodka tonics by the ledge. One noticed him and smiled, then leaned to whisper to his friend, who glanced over and shrugged.
    “They want us back home,” Brano said as he took the other seat. “There’s a flight at eleven in the morning.”
    “What about the