Chapter 33
The port was not the kind of place a foreigner should be after dark, Alexander decided as he walked down a grimy dockside street.
The docks were shadowy and quiet, it being both too late and too early for much work to be going on there.
A few people moved about in and out of view; they had the look of tired sailors, uninterested in anything but rest, drink, or company.
At least he had a vague idea of where he needed to go. Against his better judgement, he’d mentioned “Molfiada” to the man at the hotel’s reception desk. The man had frowned for a long moment before asking, “The importers, efendi?”
Alexander had shaken his head and said no, he must be mistaken, but that was clear enough. Now he just needed to locate the ship belonging to the Molfiada importers and find whatever was blue.
The scent of salt and fish and the musty undercurrent of persistently wet things greeted him as he turned the corner to the dark glitter of the bay. The moon was bright and high in the sky, casting gently undulating shadows from the ships swaying in the water.
He walked slowly along the dock, hoping to appear more wandering than intentional.
He scanned each vessel for its name and squinted at cargo labels on crates as he passed.
There were a fair number of both at the moment; freighters, tug boats, large passenger ships bobbed next to the dock stacked four or five crates high in places.
At the end of the dock, however, he’d seen nothing referencing Molfiada.
Alexander eased himself against the wall of the building at the end of the dock, thinking furiously as he stared at the dark water. It was possible the message had not meant tonight, but tomorrow. He would return, of course, but it was irritating he’d wasted time on this venture.
He let out a harsh breath, almost a laugh. He’d only wasted time he would have had no idea how to fill.
Through a line of warehouses he walked, lost in thought about how to locate the ship, or building, or cargo, when the sound of footsteps caught his attention.
Resisting the temptation to look over his shoulder, Alexander slid against the wall of the warehouse as he turned the corner and waited for whoever had been walking behind him to pass. But they didn’t.
He continued down the twisting, cobbled alleyways back toward the main road, but again heard footsteps. Slowing his pace, Alexander pretended to look for a street sign, and spotted someone out of the corner of his eye. They were behind him, half concealed behind a wall.
His first thought was of thieves; the second was that Polat had sent a man to tail him. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but it certainly would look suspicious, wandering around the docks late at night.
Then another idea wriggled its way into his mind: Bey. He hadn’t gone back to the old man’s tea house, as he’d requested. Could it be him? They weren’t far at all from his han at the edge of the kemeralti.
His unease only grew as Alexander made his way deeper into the city. The kemeralti would be more populated, even this late at night. He had no desire to be caught on a vacant street, no matter who was following him.
He sharply turned a corner and ducked into a doorway, waiting to see if he could get behind his follower.
The doorway was plenty deep, and he knelt with an eye to the street.
A portly figure continued past him, dressed in trousers and a white shirt.
He wore a plain, dark cap over dark hair, but in the darkness, Alexander could see no more.
The man walked with purpose onward. After a long moment, Alexander stepped from his doorway and followed, for the man was going in the direction of the kemeralti, and that was where Alexander was likely to find a taxi back to Bornova.
The man from the docks stopped to speak with some men outside a tea house, greeting them and joining their table. Alexander walked past, and the man seemed to pay him no attention.
He felt quite stupid, then. He’d allowed the drama of the past few days to turn a man meeting some friends into something dangerous.
He paused at the end of the street to get his bearings, and that was when he noticed a young man come to an abrupt stop a dozen feet away.
He flung himself against the nearest wall, clearly trying to look like a casual pedestrian.
It was not the same man as before; Alexander could still see that man with his companions a few storefronts down.
This fellow had the gangly look of someone young enough to still be in school.
If it was Bey’s man following him, perhaps it was young Behlul.
With a sigh, Alexander turned and slowly started back the way he came, toward the young man.
The tail stayed leaned against the wall, fiddling with a cigarette and a match for a moment too long. When he’d successfully lit his cigarette, Alexander was nearly upon him. He looked up, and his eyes widened with surprise before he launched the cigarette at Alexander and tore off down the street.
Had it been Behlul, Alexander might have let him go.
But Alexander did chase after him, past houses and buildings with people staring, because he’d gotten a good look at that young man’s face, and he looked every bit as pale and European as the lads back at the hotel.
He’d bet all the IOUs he held that this boy was no mere pickpocket.
Several sharp turns into alleys nearly lost Alexander the young man’s trail, but fortunately the sound of his feet pounding the dusty stone streets echoed loudly.
Deeper and deeper into the city they ran, past unlit windows and under awnings and clotheslines laden with wash, farther from the colorful storefronts and into the darker, dirtier areas, the places still skeletal after the fire.
Alexander’s heart pounded against his throat and his chest burned, but the tail must have been losing steam, too; he was slowing down ahead of him. The buildings around them were fire-gnawed and stained. More places to hide.
Just as he realized that following a stranger into dark, unsavory places was an incredibly stupid thing to do, the echo of footsteps signaled another change in his direction. Alexander jogged along, catching sight of the boy just as he turned down another street. One Alexander recognized.
Somehow, the boy had led him to the edge of the kemeralti, to Bey’s tea house.
Though he was sweating from the exertion, Alexander went cold. This did lead back to Bey.
He backed away, eyes sweeping over the surrounding buildings. He might have walked into some sort of trap, though he couldn’t fathom why Bey would do such a thing.
A stone building abutted the street opposite the one he’d just come down. In the weak light emanating from the lanterns outside Bey’s han, he could make out a sign painted on its side. On a faded background of blue, in peeling letters, was painted “Molfiada—Importers 1877.”
“Took you long enough,” said a voice behind him.
Nick Hale grinned at him from the shattered window of a vacant house.