A few moments later Augusta was on the back of the professor’s vintage Vespa moped, clinging desperately to Erol’s back as he zoomed in and out of traffic on Istanbul’s twisting lanes. She could hardly believe her eyes when they had exited the university building and Erol led her to a small side street, where the professor’s 1968 Vespa Sprint—in two-tone aqua and white—was parked beside a tree. Was this old thing really the fastest way to get to Camlica? But there was no time to ponder the matter. Erol pulled Augusta onto the seat behind him and gunned the small engine as hard as it would go.
Augusta quickly discovered that old mopeds, like old books, can be surprisingly potent once you get to know them. What the Vespa lacked in raw horsepower it more than made up for in ease of maneuvering. Like everyone else in Istanbul, Erol didn’t seem to bother with lanes and felt free to ride the little moped wherever he wanted. He deftly swerved around waiting taxis, slow-moving buses, road signs and trash bins, not to mention the pedestrians who were still milling around in tourist areas. The Vespa’s little motor buzzed with excitement, as if it hadn’t had so much fun in years.
Bouncing over cobblestones and lurching downhill toward the dark sea, Augusta tried not to feel sick. As a child she had been terrified of the roller coasters at the amusement park, preferring instead the games of skill and chance that kept her feet firmly on the ground. Her grandfather had always teased her about it, but she was resolute in refusing to go airborne. Squeezing her eyes shut now and leaning hard against Erol, she tried to think of something, anything, besides her precarious perch on the narrow seat.
Follow the facts Augusta repeated to herself fervently, by way of distraction. Follow the facts. That’s what I’m doing. I’m following the facts. The facts had led her first to Istanbul, then to Big Island, to the Ottoman History Museum, to the bookshop, to the Bath of Bedestan, to the university, and now to Camlica Hill on the other side of the city. But were the facts leading her astray? At this rate, it didn’t seem likely she would ever get her grandfather’s book back. Even as they drew closer to Camlica, it felt as if the lost discourses were getting farther and farther away. At every turn the book had seemed so close, only to slip further out of reach.
Her stomach somersaulted as Erol raced around a stalled truck in front of them. Augusta pressed her head into the back of his polo shirt—the one he had bought at a tourist shop on Big Island—and realized that wherever else the facts led, they always seemed to bring her back to Erol. With her arms snugly around his chest, she took a deep breath and felt herself relax a little. She still didn’t know where she was going or exactly what she would do when she got there. But she had a very strong feeling she was going there with the right person.
It was now almost midnight and the city was emptier than Augusta had yet seen it, but there were still plenty of people out and about. They had crossed the small bridge over the Golden Horn and were racing back up toward the fairytale Galata Tower. Erol made a hard right, and instead of sputtering uphill the Vespa zoomed along the coastal road.
To her right, peeking through blocks of 19th-century apartment buildings and modern glass offices, Augusta could see the glassy waters of the Bosporus. No longer glinting and glimmering in the sunlight, the sea looked impenetrable, almost solid. Augusta had a sudden urge to touch the water, to scoop it up in handfuls and test its heaviness for herself. What would it feel like? The weight of centuries? She shivered at the thought of the cold, dark water sliding through her hands. Don’t be crazy, she told herself. Just follow the facts.
The traffic became sparser as they whizzed underneath a broad arcade of trees, past beautiful palaces, high medieval walls, mosques, and fountains. How beautiful the city was lit up at night, its white marble monuments shining like the rising moon.
Erol turned left onto a wide avenue, and for the first time Augusta felt she could balance on the narrow seat. She dropped one arm from around his back and took in the full view around her. Now that she no longer felt like throwing up, the ride was almost enjoyable. With Erol solidly in front of her, the sea breeze at her back, and a smoothly paved road under their wheels, Augusta felt a calm sense of purpose settling around her. This was exactly where she needed to be right now—on the back of an antique moped, racing toward a group of creepy occultists in a city she barely knew. It didn’t even matter anymore whether she got the lost discourses back or not. What mattered was that she was trying. She knew her grandfather would have been proud of her either way.
The Vespa finished its uphill ascent as Erol turned onto what looked like a raised highway. Cars roared past on their left as they hugged the right shoulder of the road, giving them a beautiful view out over the city. Streetlights illuminated neat neighborhoods of tile-roofed houses spreading up the sides of Istanbul’s hilly landscape in the dark. Ahead loomed a large suspension bridge, its red steel towers standing sentinel over the Bosporus. They were heading straight toward it.
As they reached the bridge, soaring over the historic waterway where empires were made and crushed, Augusta’s breath caught in her throat. The view was unbelievably gorgeous. The moon, now high in the sky, presided over a city lit from head to toe with warm dots of light, like a splendidly decorated Christmas tree. Beneath them glided boats large and small, while the water was lined on both sides with brightly lit docks and streetlamps. To their right skyscrapers poked out of the European soil, while across from them Asia awaited. And directly in front of them, unmistakable with the vast mosque cresting its hilltop, was Camlica.
“Where do you think they’ll be?” Augusta asked as they pulled into a parking area at the top of the hill. Erol silenced the Vespa’s noisy motor and the night grew quiet around them. There were still a few people milling about, and Augusta glanced around for anyone wearing a suit or leather jacket. No sign of Efendi or the man in the aviator sunglasses.
“Let’s try the highest point of the hill,” Erol suggested, heading past an Ottoman-style building and a park filled with tulips. “We don’t know what they look like, but they may have the lost discourses with them. And they will probably be acting strangely, looking at the moon or something. I think we’ll know them when we see them.”
Augusta followed Erol along the carefully manicured paths, avoiding the gaze of other couples strolling along hand-in-hand in the moonlight. A fountain bubbled in the center of the park. It was so peaceful here. If they hadn’t been chasing the Rumelovs, she would have loved to sit down by the fountain and enjoy the serene view of the city below.
They passed a wide flagstone patio, where a few people still sat drinking tea at outdoor tables, and entered a wooded area. “Did you know this used to be a hunting ground for the sultans?” Erol whispered as they ducked through pine branches. “They trained their falcons and hawks here. The pines used to be so thick, sunlight never even reached the ground.”
She supposed Erol couldn’t help it—the past was present for him. But right now they really needed to focus. “What are we going to do about the Rumelovs?” Augusta whispered back. “What’s the plan when we find them?”
Erol didn’t respond. After a few steps he said, “I don’t know. We’ll make it up as we go. We need to see what they’re doing and how many there are. I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
“Make it up as we go?” Augusta didn’t like the sound of that. “Erol, don’t you ever plan things out before you do them? What if we can’t figure anything out?”
“Don’t worry, we will.” He extended a hand out toward her and smiled encouragingly. “Come on. You’ll see.”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took his hand. They continued walking along the path, hands clasped. Suddenly Erol stopped.
“There!” He pointed.
They had reached the edge of the pine grove. In a small clearing stood a group of men, gathered around something Augusta couldn’t see. There were about five or six of them, but there were no lights here and she couldn’t make out their faces or what they were doing.
Erol crept slowly to a tree at the edge of the grove, pulling Augusta along with him. They watched for a moment as the men talked to each other in hushed tones.
“We need to get closer.”
Augusta nodded. Yes, but how would they do that without being seen? The last thing she wanted was a face-to-face encounter with Efendi.
“They have my book!” Augusta gasped. The men had broken part into two groups, and she could now see one of them silhouetted in the moonlight, holding a large, leather-bound book. That had to be the lost discourses.
“Maybe I should run over and snatch it,” Erol murmured. “Just like they did to you earlier.”
“No! There are too many of them,” Augusta said. “They could really hurt you this time.”
Erol continued staring at the men in the clearing.
“Why don’t we find a phone and call the police?” she urged. “Or at least Mark and Eda? We need help. We can’t do this on our own.”
In the distance, Augusta suddenly heard the drone of a helicopter overhead. She jumped at the sound, so out of place in this quiet hilltop park. The sound grew louder, as if the helicopter were headed straight toward them at high speed. What is it doing so close to the hill? she wondered. She doubted whether anyone was allowed to land a helicopter here. Maybe it was the president of Turkey, come to enjoy a midnight stroll at Camlica?
Erol looked up too, and the sound of whirring blades grew so loud that they could no longer talk to one another. There were two choppers, definitely heading straight toward the clearing on the hill. The men in the clearing froze, apparently unsure what to do. They seemed mesmerized by the sight of the approaching aircraft, even as searchlights beaming out from the helicopters illuminated them on the open hillside.
The two copters were now hovering almost directly above them, only a few meters from the ground. The noise was deafening. Augusta and Erol watched from behind their tree as the helicopter doors sprang open and four men rappelled out, touching down lightly on the ground.
Standing behind the tree, Erol gripped her hand as chaos unfolded around them.
The Rumelovs were now panicking. They scattered and ran in every direction—one crashed down the path only a few feet away from Augusta and Erol. Escape was short-lived, however. The men from the helicopter, dressed in army fatigues and black masks, worked efficiently. As their helicopters hovered overhead, like anxious dragonflies, they cornered at least five of the Rumelovs, pointing and waving their weapons menacingly.
The soldiers herded the occultists into a corner of the clearing and stood back as their aircraft descended to the ground. The helicopter doors sprang open once again, and the special ops force prodded their captives inside. Within five minutes from the time they first appeared, the operation was complete. The choppers sat still and silent in the clearing, as if waiting for something.
Augusta turned to Erol, thunderstruck. “What just happened?”
He shook his head, staring blankly at the silent helicopter sitting a few fee away from them. “I have no idea. Who were those men? Are they working for or against the Rumelovs?”
“It didn’t look like they were friends. But who even knows about the Rumelovs? The police? The army? Those guys were highly trained.”
Suddenly the chopper blades whirred into life again, and the helicopters began lifting off. At the last possible moment, a door on one of them opened and a man jumped out onto the ground as the aircraft took off and droned away. He started walking directly toward Augusta and Erol, as if he knew exactly where they were hiding.
Augusta felt a knot of dread in the pit of her stomach. The man striding toward them was slim, of medium build, and wearing a dark leather jacket. She recognized him even without the aviator sunglasses.
She felt herself clench Erol’s hand tightly as she flattened herself behind the tree. Maybe he didn’t really know they were there—he could just be walking in this direction looking for another occultist. If they were quiet he would probably just walk right past them.
Heart pounding, palms sweating, Augusta was too scared to even close her eyes. She stood holding her breath, listening as the last of the helicopters’ roar faded away. Could she hear footsteps? Had he passed? Was he looking for them?
Augusta glanced sideways at Erol, who was also standing silently, ears strained. She had no way of knowing if they were safe, or when she should move. She would just have to wait.
Without warning, the man in the leather jacket stepped in front of them. Augusta tried to scream but no sound came out of her throat. The man was holding her grandfather’s book.
“Who are you?” Erol called out angrily.
The man didn’t answer, but his face opened into a broad smile. It was the warmest, most welcoming smile Augusta had ever seen. Her heart burned like a live coal—what was it that reminded her so much of her grandfather? Surely this man wasn’t here to hurt her.
The man took the lost discourses out from under his arm and held it out to her, his blue eyes twinkling at their astonishment.
“Happy 21st birthday, Augusta.”
Another marvelous chapter and now I'm on the edge of my seat! Didn't see that coming.
Thank you for this wonderful fiction and your always-valuable nonfiction.