They meet at the edge of the park. She's early, she realises; she has the time not only to check the perimeter, but also, despite her lack of sleep and the early hour, to marvel at her surroundings. The slanted light of morning is turning the reddish walls of the Hagia Sophia a soft orange; the glow of colour, the four spines of the minarets, even the oddly softened arcs of the main complex recall countries far beyond the Bosporus. She's reminded of how, in a city like this, culture and history do not form a straight line from past to present but layers upon layers, some translucent, some opaque, many obscured by what lies above or beneath.
And there he is; even from afar, she can make out Jack in the thin crowds as easily as she would spot a circling hawk in a flight of pigeons. Maybe it's the firm line of his shoulders, or the purpose in his step--as much as she admires his proficiency, she cannot imagine Jack ever looking completely inconspicuous. Even now, he doesn't look like an Istanbul citizen strolling idly through his city, but like a man on the way to an important meeting.
What will the passersby think they are? Colleagues? Father and daughter? It sends an odd thrill through her to think that they might consider them lovers; it's not unusual, especially not in this country, for a man to marry a much younger woman.
Nadia squelches the thought.
"Günaydin," he says--the extent of his greeting.
Nadia lets herself to smile at him. Simply getting into character--that's all it is. Just two citizens meeting casually and easily. Simple.
"Günaydin--nasilsin?" Not just a formality, for once; she does wonder how Jack is doing. During the remote briefing, her father had informed Sydney and her that they were to leave the premises lest they draw attention to the Süleymaniye cemetery, and Nadia was to meet Jack at the Hagia Sophia, halfway between the headquarters and the Süleymaniye Mosque. Of course, he hadn't shared Jack's opinion on this turn of events.
She'd wanted to be able to claim that she hated to be temporarily separated from her sister after they'd always made such a good team, but Nadia doesn't much like lying--neither to herself nor the ones close to her. In her experience, lies tend to resurface in times when they can pose the most danger. Neither the streets nor government service are merciful when it comes to such mistakes.
"Shall we go?" Jack has stepped a little closer, searching her face, and Nadia nods, feeling a bit foolish. Hardly time or place to ponder past and present. "You seemed absent for a moment."
His Turkish is good, Nadia notes; he doesn't make the mistake of transferring the linguistic melodies--or lack thereof--of his native tongue but speaks this language with the proper inflection, the right temper. And a louder tone of voice.
"Just a stray thought. Okay, the tour bus stop over there?"
Jack follows her line of sight. "I assume it will lead us straight to Süleymaniye Mosque."
"Yes. According to the timetable, the one I chose leaves in three minutes. We should have five minutes to stroll over."
He glances at her and nods before he turns in the right direction. Now it's Nadia's turn to blink and wonder if the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth was just a trick of the diffused light.
The bus isn't overly crowded, a fact for which he's grateful. Easy to conceal almost anything in a dense, swirling mass of people. Once, not far from Saigon, he had seen a crowd of approaching villagers suddenly part to reveal a young Vietcong aiming a rocket launcher straight at them. It was only thanks to Arvin, whose aim was better, that he lived to tell the tale.
Not that he ever actually told it.
"Jack?" Nadia, her voice soft enough not to be heard just one foot away. "We're inconspicuous as long as no one talks to us, but in case this happens--what is our legend?" Her mouth barely moves, a valuable skill; only the slight tremble of her lips would betray that she's spoken at all.
He raises his eyes and his voice and, in Turkish, tells her: "We'll find Roxelane's grave, don't worry. I've always told you how vital it is to learn about your proud heritage. I'm pleased your strange reporter job finally led you to something useful."
She smiles, sunlight illuminating the dusting of freckles on her nose. "Not only useful but well-paying; the Canberra Times didn't just come up for all expenses but also increased my bonus." Tosses her hair, leans back cheerfully. "Only fitting; it is the big feuilleton summer feature, after all."
He's just about to respond when there is movement in the aisle next to Nadia; suddenly, the seat isn't empty anymore. Jack's muscles twitch of their own volition, but it's only a lout in a department store suit who gives Nadia a toothy grin and leans over with unsolicited familiarity.
Clearly, the worst thing this boy will unleash is the force of a deplorable pick-up line. Jack relaxes and lets the Sig slide back into the holster under his jacket.
"You're quite the big summer feature, yourself."
Nadia seems to agree with his earlier assessment as she slowly turns her head.
"Tesekkürler--thank you. Now, would you excuse us? My cousin and I want to finish our conversation."
The boy's grin slips only a little. "I promise you can, in a minute! I overheard you're a sort of reporter, but can you honestly tell me you wouldn't like to be a model instead? My agency is always looking for beautiful, gorgeous girls just like you!" Generally, Jack considers tenacity a virtue, but he will make a specific exception.
"Yes."
Satisfaction glittering on the tanned face. "Oh, I'm glad you're taking this unique opportunity--"
"Wait."
And he does, slightly taken aback by his own immediate compliance.
"I meant: Yes, I can honestly tell you I wouldn't like to be a model instead of a reporter."
"But..." an appraising glance in Jack's direction. Jack simply stares back. He remembers Nadia during their interrogation session, her particular attitude when beset with unwelcome questions. If he were a different man, he'd probably pity the fool.
"Well. Then..." the boy scoots back, glances at Nadia again. Muttering what might be an apology, he quickly stands and walks to the other end of the bus, not looking back.
Nadia seems as pleased as he secretly is. Leaning forward, she gives him a small, conspiratorial smile. "Our stop."
They quickly exit the bus, make their way toward the gardens, and let themselves be separated from the tourists flocking to the main attractions--the courtyard, the mosque with its cascading golden domes. Only then does she turn to him with a flourish and a grin, wide and carefree. "Interesting cover that my new partner comes up with."
New partner. Jack finds he likes the sound of this. Still, the question begs to be asked.
"Cousin?"
"It's completely possible, biologically--a few years to one side, a few years to the other." He's seen this expression of mischief before, but he hasn't ever been privy to its charm. "After your performance, it was either that or the stereotypical uncle. Cliché, don't you think?"
"Clichés work well for cover stories."
Her face falls a little at that, and her expression grows more somber. He feels a twinge of regret; moments like these make him realise how shockingly young she is underneath the spy glamour.
Nadia is nothing if not adaptable, though. "I understand. I'll play it safer next time."
Maybe it's his fault; he could have come up with a scheme that placed them both in different categories. An artist and her mentor, for example. Of course, there are reasons for playing the journalism card--it is flexible and can open doors that would otherwise remain closed. Casting himself in the role of an older relative was brought on by sheer force of habit, though. It may be utterly necessary in countries further south whenever the part of husband and wife is out of the question, but it turns out to be rather obsolete here in Istanbul.
"We're here--it's the grave at the end of the row beneath the cyprus tree."
She doesn't head over there; instead, she makes a sharp turn and approaches the impressive mausoleums of Sultan Süleyman and his wife Roxelane. She rummages in her purse and takes out notepad and pen; window dressing at its best. "Just look around; I'll take a few notes."
Jack nods and walks a few more steps, stopping at the twin tombstones of Kemil Orhan (sallal laahu alaihi wasallam), Admiral under Selim II., fallen in 1571 at the great naval battle of Lepanto off the coast of Greece. Here, apart from the actual target down the row, he can surveil the surroundings and guard her--while it isn't likely someone will recognise the vivacious young reporter over at the grave of the Golden-Age sultan as the black-clad operative from last night, he isn't willing to take chances. The cemetery is teeming with tourists from Turkey and elsewhere, but this actually serves his purpose. Between dozens of noisy, camera-bearing, Lonely Planet-reading tourists, no one will notice him ambling over to a shadowed grave to read the inscriptions.
A few figures seem vaguely out of place in the old Ottoman graveyard--the garishly dressed mother with a stroller, the bearded, bulky man sweating freely through his black t-shirt, the wiry guy circling the tombs at the far end. No one seems to be paying any undue attention to Nadia or him, however. Good.
A shoot-out in the middle of a tourist site is not very high on his list of priorities.
Gravel crunches under the soles of his shoes as he slowly closes the distance to the tomb Nadia has pointed out to him. Slender and tall like the others, the outline of the headstone distinguishes it from the rest: it calls forth the outline of the Arabic letter A. Allah akbar--
the imam was a God-fearing man who wouldn't have desecrated the grave itself in any way (no need for Jack to utilise the tools in the cemetery shed), so any and all clues will be found on either the headstone or the footstone.
The latter, as all of its kind, seems to be blank. It is unfortunate that in order to check for hidden signs, he won't be able to simply kneel down by the grave and pretend to pray. Forbidden to faithful Muslims, it is far too likely to rouse interest.
The inscription on the headstone, although weathered by age and the elements, is quickly deciphered, although he finds the translation takes him a minute. Hard to believe it's been fifteen years since he read and spoke Arabic in the field.
May ALLAH, merciful and compassionate, gaze at his faithful son Muhamad Haj Ali the Wise whose soul trusted and whose heart loved ALLAH; kind of nature, gentle of spirit, he adhered to QU'RAN and the five pillars of ISLAM in every place and at every time: Ever striving to hajj, give alms, abstain, profess, and pray: The glory of ALLAH made him turn toward the path of the righteous, heavenward like the PROPHET MOHAMMED, to see The Gardens of Everlasting Bliss, the Abode of Peace where no one other but the faithful marvel at the colour of eternity and the sublime beauty of Allah's Paradise as is hidden from the eyes and only revealed to whose inner sight saves them from the vicious circle of sin and damnation and godlessness and who alone will be called Faithful--
be reminded of where you are.
Good advice for the ones mentioned, but, Jack muses, not terribly helpful to infidels attempting to crack a hidden code. The latter would be easier if he had an inkling about the key.
"Selam." Nadia has reached him; her eyes are lingering not on the tomb but on him. Proper tradecraft. "I jotted down a few things on Roxelane. Did you know she was Polish--but of Russian origin--and, I quote, not renowned for her beauty?"
"Out of the harem, she managed to become the Sultan's favourite due to her intelligence, her talents, and her skill at intrigue, I recall. Great influence on the young Conqueror of Continents."
Nadia raises one perfect eyebrow. "How terribly romantic. The way you describe it, it was a game of wits rather than a...reverse courtship."
"Not quite. Do you know how she captured his heart, Nadia?"
"Afraid that wasn't in the brochure."
"She wrote him love letters."
The quick flash of pleased surprise on her face is oddly endearing, but she blinks, as if to clear her head, and nods, stepping closer. If he reached out, his arm would brush hers.
"Why I came over--you seemed...lost in translation. I was wondering if I could assist you."
Refreshing.
"You might. Was there anything other than the elements you already mentioned?"
Nadia frowns and looks away, past him, slowly scanning the cemetery, worrying her memories of a small sketch carved in rough stone. This, he knows, is hard; any clue would have most likely been in Arabic. Scripts to which the mind is completely unaccustomed aren't easily stored away, not even for those with photographic memory.
Out of her purse, she procures a notebook; its first page is filled with bullet points and Turkish words--he can make out "Roxelane" and "harem". Her font is a haphazard scrawl, not the feminine curvature he somehow expected after reading through the printed pages of her mission reports, which were animated and displayed an eye for detail.
"There was something that may have been an Arabic word in the upper right hand corner. Let me try to copy it."
Slender ballpoint scratching over the rough surface of the paper, he bends over the notebook. Over her. For some reason--one reason, in fact--, he is all too aware of the way her fingers move, that her tailored jacket slides back ever so slightly to reveals the line of her collarbone underneath the open blouse, the warm scent of her perfume.
"This?"
Undoubtedly an Arabic word, but it's written at tilted, stretched, awkward angles instead of the graceful, subtle arcs he's been perusing. Jack wishes, irrationally, that Nadia knew the language; he imagines she would master it with ease, read Hafiz's verses in the original version, perhaps. They aren't his favourite poems--he prefers Larkin--but strike him as oddly fitting for her.
Taking in his lack of reaction, Nadia hesitates, her hand slowing. Slowly, she looks up at him, frustration lingering in the curve of her mouth.
"I'm not doing it justice, am I?"
"It's not--" his turn to hesitate, "--illegible." At the expression in her face, he hastens to add, "Merely a challenge; even the ones familiar with Arabic often have trouble transcribing it."
Nadia snorts; there's no other word for it. She seems a bit embarrassed, and the smile she gives him is both rueful and self-deprecating.
"No offence, Jack, but you don't have to coddle me."
A flash of something else in her eyes; it's gone too quickly for him to examine.
He senses her discomfort, but to his relief, she doesn't draw away. Nadia, he realises, simply doesn't know whether or not she overstepped her boundaries by insinuating that he had just been too gentle with her.
Out of the question to admit to the latter. Equally unwise to reprimand her in any way; success depends on their smooth cooperation, after all.
It's Nadia who makes the first tentative move.
"Maybe the code key is simpler than we think; an imam doesn't usually deal in espionage, after all."
Jack could tell her all about machinations at the Ottoman court during later centuries that lasted well into contemporary history. Instead, he simply nods.
"The culture of the Golden Age had certainly reached a high level of sophistication, but if we consider the fact that the safeguards we've encountered so far may have been numerous but anything but complex, this seems a valid assessment."
Speaking of safe--they are still too close to the target.
"We should leave the site."
"Of course."
They fall into step again, pass the architect Sinan's tomb and fountain of white marble, and come to sit on the stone ledge at the foot of the massive walls of the main complex; easy to keep an eye on the surrounding grounds from this vantage point. Out of earshot, tourists keep passing them; occasionally, they throw glances in their direction---at Nadia, naturally. It would be easy to recall days long gone when another woman by his side would catch the eye of men, but Jack isn't willing to let himself be emotionally compromised by shadows of the past.
Not now.
"My first mentor told me the first step to decipher the code was to guess the answer--it must be hidden in the medium, after all, and either follow its patterns or shape it accordingly."
Roberto Fox had taught her well enough.
"We'll find instructions of some kind. May I?"
She holds out ballpoint and notebook. When he reaches out and takes them out of her hands, he can't avoid brushing the skin of her fingers. Just a fleeting touch, but it is enough to send a thrill of awareness through him. Jack pulls back, attempting to focus on the words of the inscription still vivid in his mind--but then, they cannot possibly be more vivid than the expression in her eyes when he accidentally catches her gaze.
He focuses on pen and paper, on the task at hand.
Jack looks so earnest again, writing down the word of the inscription on the tombstone in his bold print, pressing the ballpoint just a little too firmly into the paper. There will be faint imprints even on the third page below.
Nadia knows there won't be any on her hand, but the spot of skin where he touched her doesn't seem to.
When he's finished writing down the translation, she is already going over the lines, counting, measuring; both content and style are unusual enough to keep her pleasantly occupied with things not Jack Bristow, senior operative.
"The bolded letters stem from the original inscription, don't they?"
"Yes." He, too, looks down. "They are merely marking terms of special religious relevance; the code key lies in numerology."
For a moment, she thinks of charts, esoteric calculations, the mystic numbers of ancient South American civilisations; this is not the angle he means, though.
"We have to look at certain words--not every other word but a different sequence? A shifting one?"
"A constant one." He flips the page and crosschecks with her questionable attempt to depict the Arabic word. "Perfection. Of course."
She looks at him without trying to hide her puzzlement. "That was the meaning?"
He just nods, and quickly starts underlining words:
May ALLAH, merciful and compassionate, gazeat his faithful son Muhamad Haj Alithe Wise whose soul trusted and whoseheart loved ALLAH; kind of nature, gentleof spirit, he adhered to QU'RAN andthe five pillars of ISLAM in everyplace and at every time: Ever strivingto hajj, give alms, abstain, profess, andpray The glory of ALLAH made himturn toward the path of the righteous,heavenward like the PROPHET MOHAMMED, tosee the The Gardens of Everlasting Bliss,the Abode of Peace where no oneother but the faithful marvel at thecolour of eternity and the sublime beautyof Allah's Paradise as is hidden fromthe eyes and only revealed to whoseinner sight saves them from the vicious circle of sin and damnation and godlessnessand who alone will be called Faithful--
be reminded of where you are.
"At the heart of the place to pray, turn heavenwards, see the other colour of the inner circle, and . . . be reminded of where you are."
Still a riddle, but she has no doubt that this is the very message.
"Every seventh word. A holy number in Judaism, Christianity...and Islam. Of course, then, it is, too, the number of--"
"--perfection." He looks at her, and she returns his gaze, oddly warm; it's not just the satisfaction of feeling the pieces click into place.
Or maybe it is just that.
"Jack--let's go inside, find the centre of the mosque, and crane our heads to stare at the ceiling to find the answer."
Following the outer walls, they enter the courtyard--surrounded by porticoes and endowed with an ablution fountain in the center--and, through the golden portal, the Süleymaniye Mosque itself.
Gold, colours, and so many sources of light--she remembers them now, from the stained glass windows over the hundreds of candles and brightly burning bulbs to the richly adorned walls reflecting each glint.
"Nadia?" He isn't willing to slow down even for a moment, his eyes scanning the room with a precision born from decades, gliding over the mihrap niche made of marble and decorated with tiles without seeing them, sliding off the calligraphic Qu'ran verses inscribed on the walls, lingering only on the other humans and, of course, the galleries over the entrance and on the sides. Her gaze is drawn there, too; but to her, they aren't just hiding places for potential snipers but reminders of the supposed place of women during worship. But she isn't here to fight that battle.
"Remember that we cannot establish any clear position in this place."
She's right by his side with one long step and looks at him with the cool gaze of perfect professionalism. "Copy that, Raptor. Proceed with mission objective."
She feels distinctly uneasy for the fraction of a heartbeat where Jack doesn't respond at all, but then he actually smirks, just a little. "Copy, Evergreen."
Past worshippers, they move to the middle of the beautiful prayer carpet. She looks around, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Yes. This is the heart of the place to pray."
As one, they look upward: a glorious dome adorned in gold, red, and blue. Jack nods. "The other colour of the inner circle. The innermost circle of decoration is blue and gold."
"Sultanahmed!"
"Bless you." His facial expression doesn't actually change, but by now she is starting to categorise all the subtle layers of meaning he conveys with just a glint in his eyes.
"Jack, it's the Blue Mosque, Sultanahmed: Gold as the colour of the Caliphate is found everywhere and not a distinguishing factor. Blue, it is. And the last part, be reminded of where you are, simply means another mosque."
"I agree. We should head over then. Nadia?"
On their way out, Nadia doesn't pay much attention to the lights or the galleries. She supposes it has to do with Jack's fingers resting lightly on her ellbow, steering her toward the portal with only the gentlest of pressure. She's never been especially sensitive with regards to being touched, but this is different; there is something both sweet and terribly proprietary about this gesture. It invokes far too many thoughts she shouldn't be havinge about an agent of his experience, but most of all, about the man he is. Only when they've stepped outside and into the shadowed portico, he takes his hand away. Oddly, it's only then that their eyes meet--
Nadia hears the strike before she sees it: The the singing sound of a club being swung in a wide arc. She instantly drops to the side and out of reach, frantically trying to pull Jack back, she,. She can't avoid being grazed by the blunt weapon, and pain explodes in her arm, makes her reel back.
"Nadia--"
Jack's voice breaks off abruptly, and she screams his name when she sees why.