Two hours later—after a nice, hot shower and one final look through her grandfather’s book—Augusta left Eda’s apartment flanked by Erol and Mark. They had called Mark and asked him to accompany them to the museum. This time Erol had decided to go by taxi, hoping to minimize any opportunities for another snatching. Augusta emerged from the apartment building with the lost discourses buried at the bottom of a backpack borrowed from Eda. She tried not to glance around furtively as she crossed from the building into the waiting taxi. Only when the three of them were settled safely into the cab, and the driver had zoomed away into the stream of traffic, did she sigh with relief.
On the way to the museum, Erol filled Mark in on details from last night. Apparently he had already told most of the story the night before, after returning to Eda’s apartment and seeing Augusta off to bed. Mark and Eda had been waiting up, anxious for their return. The three sat up late into the night, drinking tea and discussing the strange turn of events, before Mark headed back to his apartment to sleep. This morning he looked worse for wear, with his normally tidy clothes askew and his eyes puffy and red.
Augusta said little as the taxi whisked them toward the museum, where she would finalize the sale of her family’s treasured heirloom. She stared dully out the window, too preoccupied with the turmoil in her own mind to notice the scenery outside. She felt by turns angry, resentful, sad, and confused. Every once in a while a pang of guilt would strike, as she remembered how close she had been to her grandfather. Her resolve wavered when she considered how he would have felt about her selling off a book that had been in their family for 200 years.
And then anger would flame up again that he had never bothered to confide in her. None of them had. If the book was so precious, he should have told her about it. He should have explained what to do. Instead, she was here all alone, making decisions for herself. On top of everything else, it was her 21st birthday. She relished the symbolism of making such a momentous decision on the day she came fully of age—a decision that would enable her to start the new life she had always dreamed of as an artist.
Soon they rolled to a stop in front of the Ottoman History Museum. As Mark paid the taxi driver, Erol opened the door for Augusta and extended his arm for her to take. She knew he wasn’t trying to be charming—he wanted to stay as close to her as possible to discourage any potential attackers. She grabbed his arm and together they quickly ducked through the heavy front door of the museum.
There was no Hasan to greet them today. Augusta briefly wondered what had happened to him, whether he had been among those rounded up by the helicopters the night before. It had been too dark, and the men were too far away, for her to make out any individual details. That would serve him right, she thought vaguely, before her attention was taken over by Erol.
“The museum directors will be waiting for us in the boardroom,” he said, gesturing toward the staff staircase. “On the second floor. We’d better go on up. We don’t want to be late.”
He pushed open the swinging door and Augusta felt again that she was retracing her steps from the day before. She thought back to her first entrance into the museum yesterday afternoon, then her return later that evening after visiting the Hatira bookshop with Erol. Hopefully she would have better luck here today.
The three of them walked up the narrow staircase, but instead of proceeding up to the third floor, as they had done yesterday, they exited at the second floor onto a much grander hallway. Beautiful rugs carpeted the parquet floor, and light streamed in from large windows at the end of the hallway. It was a far cry from the cramped staff offices upstairs. Erol guided her to a beautiful oak-paneled door, which had something written on it in gilded Ottoman script. He knocked. A voice called in English, “Come in.”
The room they were in strongly reminded Augusta of period movies she had seen, where the heroines wore long, flowing dresses and their suitors carried gold-tipped canes. It was decorated as beautifully and formally as the museum rooms downstairs, except this one contained a massive dining table, surrounded by twelve chairs. The mahogany table was polished to such a high shine they could see the rest of the room reflected in it: the windows, the chairs, themselves.
Seated alone at the head of the table, watching calmly as they entered the room, was her father.
Augusta froze as she saw him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her face contorting into a scowl. “I don’t want to see you. Where are the museum directors? I’m here to sell the book.”
“Augusta, please,” her father said quietly, standing up and placing his hands on the mahogany table. “The directors kindly allowed me to attend the meeting in their place. I need to talk to you. I think you’ll find what I have to say very interesting.” He looked at her beseechingly.
She crossed her arms in front her chest defensively. “I don’t care if you did chase away the Rumelovs and get Grandfather’s book back yesterday. Why should I listen to you? You walked out on me when I was too little to even remember you. That’s all that matters.”
Nicolas Carter bowed his head, as if gathering his thoughts, and then looked up again at his daughter. “You’re right. I did leave you and your mother when you were little. And it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I hope you’ll feel differently about it after we talk. I had to protect you.”
“Protect me! By leaving?” Augusta was almost choking with rage. “Were you protecting Grandmother when she was attacked in her own home? When I was almost run down by a book thief?”
Her father exhaled heavily and sat down in one of the richly upholstered chairs around the table. “That’s exactly the point,” he sighed. “The line of work I’m in is very dangerous. If anyone had known you were related to me, they could have tried to get at me through you. It was much better to keep you anonymous. You saw what happened when it became publicly known that the lost discourses of Epictetus belonged to Nicolas Carter of Halcyon, North Carolina.” He turned and looked at Erol. “I believe we have you to thank for that, Mr. Yilmaz.”
Erol had been standing silently between Augusta and Mark, unsure whether to stay and take Augusta’s side, or leave and let the two of them hash out their differences alone. In truth he thought Nicolas Carter’s defense sounded very reasonable, but he could also understand Augusta’s shock and anger at being deceived for so long. He decided to aim for cautious neutrality.
“At first I didn’t realize I was putting anyone in danger,” Erol confessed, matching the older man’s steady gaze across the room. “But Hasan, the museum guide, must have overheard me talking about the lost discourses. I suppose I wasn’t trying to hide it from anyone. I was so happy to locate such a remarkable book after years of searching. I must have been a bit too loud.”
Nicolas Carter smiled at him. Besides the crow’s feet crinkling around his dark blue eyes, this man looked quite young—too young to be Augusta’s father. Erol thought of his own father at home, puttering around the garden and enjoying his wife’s home cooking a little too much. Maybe it was the blue jeans and leather jacket that gave Nicolas the appearance of youthfulness, or maybe it was all the jaunting around in helicopters and dodging thieves along city streets. Whatever it was, Erol found him to be a sympathetic figure, but also a person worth treating with respect.
“You are right about that,” Nicolas replied. The lost discourses are very remarkable. Perhaps more so than you realize. Have you had a chance to read the book yourself yet?”
“Wait a minute,” Augusta broke in angrily. “What is this? I thought we were talking about our family, not the discourses. Why does everything always come back to this stupid book?”
If he was frustrated by his daughter’s resentment, Nicolas Carter did not show it. “Please,” he said, gesturing toward the empty seats in front of them. “Sit down and I’ll be happy to tell you. You too, Mr., uh…” He looked at Mark.
“Mark. You can just call me Mark.”
“Well, Mark, you’re welcome to join us if you wish. My sources tell me you’re trustworthy.” He smiled affably at the two young men, who were looking at Augusta for an indication of what they should do.
Augusta felt that she had every right to walk out of the room, book under her arm, and demand a proper meeting with the museum directors. She was under no obligation to listen to her father, no matter how polite and agreeable he seemed. She had no way of knowing whether she could really trust him, or whether he would tell her the truth after living a lie for so many years.
On the other hand, curiosity was glowing hot in the back of her mind. Maybe this was her chance to get answers to all those questions that had plagued her ever since Grandfather’s death. Her father seemed prepared to tell her the significance of the old book, what it meant and how it related to her family. And she was dying to know what had happened to the Rumelovs. How did her father fit into that? How did he know everything about her, even though he had been gone for 20 years? Here was the opportunity to find out—if she chose to take it.
Pulling a chair out from under the gleaming table, Augusta sat down and nodded her consent to Erol and Mark. She was glad they were here. They gave her strength—it was three against one if she needed it. Although she had a feeling that somehow the odds would always be stacked in her father’s favor.
“Thank you,” Nicolas said from across the table, “for agreeing to listen. I will understand if you don’t agree with my actions. I will respect your judgment after you know all the facts. But please listen before you judge.” His eyes were filled with emotion.
“It’s important for you to know everything.”