Istanbul Express by T. Davis Bunn

Author:T. Davis Bunn [T. Davis Bunn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781441270948
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

Chapter Eight

Jake sighed his way into the office building’s ancient elevator. He watched as Mrs. Ecevit slid the brass accordion doors shut and pressed the top-floor button. He waited as the floors clanked by, his mind far too slack for what lay ahead. But he could not help it. His world was out of kilter. His heart thudded miserably in his chest. He sighed again.

Mrs. Ecevit glanced his way. “There is something wrong?”

He started to deny it but did not have the strength. “I argued with my wife. Last night. And again this morning.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Men are such bad quarrelers.”

“I sure am.” Jake watched her ratchet the inner door back and push the outer one open, then followed her out. “I can’t win a debate. She’s much more intelligent than I am. So I lose my temper and end up ordering her to do what I want her to do.”

For the very first time a hint of something human, something warm and compassionate, showed through Mrs. Ecevit’s brittle shell. She slowed her pace. “I do not know American women, but if they are anything like intelligent Turkish women, they would not like such an order very much.”

“No,” Jake agreed. “Sally sure doesn’t.”

He tried to compose himself as they entered a large outer office, but the weight of his heart pulled his face back into the same slack lines. Jake watched from the doorway as she walked over and gave their names to an attractive receptionist.

Mrs. Ecevit returned to where he stood and said, “We are early, and the man we are scheduled to meet has other people with him.”

“No problem.” Jake sank down into the corner seat, as removed as possible from the cheerful bustle filling the large chamber. Mrs. Ecevit took the seat beside him, her eyes darkly humorous. He said, “I’d give anything never to have to argue with her, not ever again.”

The humor broke through then, and Mrs. Ecevit dropped ten years as she flashed white teeth and chuckled. “Ah, Mr. Burnes, you Americans are so wonderful at times.”

“Call me Jake. I can’t be talking about something this personal and hear you call me by my last name.”

“All right.” Another flashing smile, and he realized that beneath that diamond-hard exterior dwelled a truly striking woman. “You may call me Anya. There is an expression we use very often, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow the apricots.’ It is very Turkish. The story goes, once there was a handsome young man, just like yourself, I imagine. He was pressing his favors upon a lovely young maiden. As he grew more impatient for her answer, she replied, yes, all right, but tomorrow, tomorrow when the apricots appear on that tree. Only the tree she was pointing to was a pear tree.”

“Meaning I’m asking for the impossible.”

“Yes,” she agreed, trying to recover her accustomed solemnness, but the light in her eyes giving her away. “But it is very nice that you would even wish for such a thing. It is very romantic. Would

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