Disclaimer: I do not own Vampire Academy or anything surrounding it (but I do own this plot :D)
JPOV
The ground hurt beneath my feet, each step adding to the burn just that little bit more as the cobbled-ridges dug on my soles. The sun had dipped down below the roofs, peeking out only between the buildings and igniting the dark alleys. The city was layered in gold like a shimmering fog, a mist at dawn. But the sun was going down and the city was darkening; all the joys of the day were slowing being edged out as the shadows crept it. Dusk was approaching yet the unsuspecting natives remained ignorant to the encroaching colonists. I tightened the scarf around my neck, the fabric concealing my pasty, Scottish complexion and hiding my bright ginger hair. The curls were tied back into a tight bun and the scarf ran over it, keeping me a shadow in the crowd.
The city was still alive - still beating like a steadfast heart in battle. The soft rumble of conversation hummed around me with a sense of comfort found in clinking glasses at candle-lit dinners mixed with an eerie sense of foreboding. I continued to walk down the street, the cobbles digging into my already worn feet, keeping my head down, but raised enough to be a constant state of surveillance.
"How's it looking, Jenny?" the familiar tone that complemented Emyl's deep voice was heightened amidst the foreign Turkish atmosphere.
"Clear." I said, the feeling of my scanning eyeballs was almost robotic in its nature as I took in the area around me like a steadfast security camera: capturing anything and everything.
"Have you got a visual on Mazur" In my preherfery I could see the Moroi, dressed in his usual style of an over-expensive suit with scarf (even Hamlet had shaken his head at the sight of his colleague after he had pulled the thing out of a locked chest in the living room) a few metres behind me, speaking in fluent Turkish to the trader in the street: a man around his mid-thirties, 5"7", lanky build, limp on left foot.
"Affirmative." I affirmed, stepping out of the main flow of people and into the darkened sidelines. Laughter caught my attention and I saw the trader in a fit of hysterics, Ibrahim silently smirking in front of him. I rolled my eyes and shifted the frequency on my radio, "Try to stay on task." I said.
From where I stood, I saw his smirk grow. His eyes pulling away from the now crying man and found mine. With one quick wink, he returned to the trader as if nothing had happened. I flipped the radio back.
Ten minutes later, we were on the move again.
"Two o'clock, male, white shirt, navy trousers." I shifted my gaze to the location, still mindful of Ibrahim walking steadily behind me. The man was pale. Too pale. I tensed, hand tensing around my stake, its surface warmed in the dipping evening sun. I flicked my eyes to find that great ball of fire, but only a slender spark remained. The city couldn't care less as the streets remained as lit and as lively as ever, but nature was giving in to the darkness. I felt my heartbeat in my ears; the steady pulse blocking out the world and rendering all its noise mute. My gaze was latched, hooked, on that man, my feet edging through the crowd towards his fickle frame. My fist tightened. He shifted, his eyes met mine. I froze, stopping just before...he vomited in front of me.
I sighed, unclenching my fist. The man remained hunched over himself, his decidedly brown eyes remaining pinned to the ground as the nearby waiter shouted instructions in rapid Turkish into the adjacent restaurant. "False alarm." I said into the radio. Behind, I could see Ibrahim frown over at the situation, clearly having noted my change in direction and exposure of my now re-concealed stake. He wandered over to him, my heartbeat increasing with every step, and handed him a tissue. I sighed again, scowling a little at the Moroi in question who shot me a devious smirk.
Bastard. I thought and gestured for him to get a move on. Quite frankly, it was a real trial not to go back there a slap him. Thankfully my ability to resist a veritable degree of temptation remained steadfast. Granted, it wasn't exactly the apple to my Eve, however the desire lay there all the same.
We made our way back towards Hamlet's home; both Emyl and Ibrahim remained in my periphery until breaking away to enter the house through the three possible entrances. Always keeping distant, no-one would suspect we had anything to do with each other. I stepped over my threshold and let out a sigh of relief. The exhaustion of my feet now flowing through my entire being as if it had entered my bloodstream or being zapped through synapses in frantic electric bolts. I heard a light laughter from the main sitting room which perked my attention. Brushing my feet on the mat on sheer instinct, I set off in search of the familiar sound. Such was its familiarity, I felt myself drawn to it as though it were water in the desert: to hell if it was just a mirage of what I knew, I needed it.
I found Harriet sitting on the floor, surrounded with sheets of paper, screens and a whole array of other mismatched items and modes of literature. She was grinning up at the reverend, who himself was positioned with his lengthy legs crossed and facing towards her, at the table. Over the past couple of days, Harriet's opinion of Hamlet had shifted - he had grown on her, earning not only her true kindness, but also her trust. And it seemed to go both ways. It was not hard to like Harriet, but the shared faith that they had perhaps added to her appeal.
Our mission was now in full swing. Not wanting to put Harriet in unnecessary (or even necessary, if I'm honest) danger, and with Hamlet used to working in the shadows, the pair of them had spent their time filing through any and all information that the still unnamed organisation that Hamlet, Ibrahim, Vincent and la renard were a part of had on La Luz and indeed any trafficking groups operating within Istanbul. Apparently, there were quite a few. More than I certainly expected. Such as it was, I could physically feel my world-view changing in those moments and I didn't like it. That is not to say I was naive, holding on to the idea that everything is good and wonderful really. No, far from it. But, I would've liked to have imagined that it wasn't this bad.
To add insult to injury, most of what we had was useless. Heart-wrenching, but useless. With Hamlet and Harriet, along with Vincent when we could get a hold of him, investigating leads, the rest of us chased them up. Out of the four members we had met, Ibrahim was the clear leg-worker of the group, so quite comfortably slotted into his role as subtle interrogator, whilst myself and Emyl covered him on all grounds, alternating near and far and position in relation to him. I wasn't too pleased with the idea of leaving Harriet, not just on account of Hamlet, but alone altogether. Emyl was even less thrilled. However, Hamlet's defense system, as it turned out, was terrifying, even to me. Safe to say, even negating the protection of God, no-one was getting in without Hamlet's say so: terrorist, Strigoi or otherwise.
"Ah, Abe, how'd it go?" Hamlet said as Ibrahim sauntered into the room, eyeing the soft couch, walking with intent towards it and plonking down.
"So-so," Ibrahim replied before glancing toward my figure in the door, "Are you alright there, Janine?"
"Hmm?" I blinked, "Oh, yeah, sorry: blanked out." I said, entering in, gazing towards the empty seat next to Ibrahim on the couch, but resolving to stand in the end.
I'm not sure he believed me for Ibrahim paused for a minute, but continued as he knew I wasn't about to develop that any further. "There doesn't appear to be much in the way of large-scale, but Ahmed knows a few transactions are in the air at the minute; a certain 'buzz' is afoot, apparently." Ibrahim said, turning his attention to Hamlet.
The reverend smiled. "God bless him, he alway was very poetic. You think La Luz would be so public in their affairs?"
Ibrahim shrugged. "I'm inclined to disagree, but ruling anything out would be a sure sign of foolishness."
"We might want to tone it down a bit," Emyl, having just arrived at the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting area, leaning on the frame just behind Hamlet figure, said. "We were being watched."
"We?" I asked.
"Well, him." Emyl corrected, nodding towards Ibrahim.
"By who?" Ibrahim asked, leaning forward to rest his stubbled chin against the flats of his knuckles.
"There was a man, about mid-twenties, blonde. He kept appearing on our track. I don't think he spotted us," he said gesturing between him and myself, "but he was definitely interested in you."
Ibrahim nodded. "We must tread carefully. There is a chance it is merely coincidental, but even if he is not part of La Luz, there is an equal probability that he is part of another gang."
Great. I thought and, if Ibrahim's smirk was anything to go by, he heard.
"Has Croft been back in touch?" I asked.
Harriet shook her head. "No, no word." she said, biting her lip a little. I could well guess where her mind was taking her.
"Maybe Mexico is proving a little more tricky." Emyl said, jumping in to spare her thoughts.
"Particularly if Drew is involved." I added, grinning a little and causing her to smile.
Thank you, she mouthed.
A vibration told Hamlet that something had come through and he turned to look at the screen. "Ah, Charles appears to have found something."
We all perked up. "Kravitz?" Ibrahim asked.
A smile grew across Hamlet's features. "He's found a connection: Kravitz appears to have been in contact with one Señor Guerra."
"Apt." Emyl said, with a smirk. I shook my head.
"Indeed, Guerra was in Istanbul on, and I quote, 'business', in the past couple of months." Hamlet said.
Ibrahim snorted, "That's a euphemism if ever there was one. Pray tell, is he still here?"
Hamlet brow furrowed as he inspected the screen before him. Taking out a pair of spectacles, he edged his face closer. "Honestly, it's like he does this on purpose."
"I can assure you, he does." Ibrahim said with a wink.I cast him a stern look as I sensed an in-joke was looming which would get us right of task. Ibrahim's smirk lowered and he bowed his head respectively.
"Ah, there it is. Yes, he is here. Oh and would you look at that." Hamlet said with significant surprise in his voice.
"What?" Emyl said.
"He's not staying at the Ritz is he?" Ibrahim asked, a note of disbelief in his tone.
"Presidential suit." Hamlet replied, leaning back.
Ibrahim rolled his eyes. "Excellent," he said arising.
Harriet frowned. "You're not going now, are you?" she said, looking towards the clock.
Hamlet cocked a brow towards Ibrahim, but he remained completely at ease. "Why of course. We can't take any chances, he could be gone by tomorrow. Besides, I make it time for dinner and any self-righteous terrorist would, of course, be enjoying today's catch of the day."
Emyl chuckled from where he stood and moved to go with the Moroi. "No rest for the wicked, huh."
"Indeed, though the 'wicked' in this case will be lacking in your charming self." Ibrahim replied.
"Sorry?" Emyl said, frowning.
"You are not going there by yourself." I stated, both clearly and authoritatively. The last thing I needed was to worry about some rabid terrorist sticking a fish-fork into Ibrahim's throat which, given the motivation and Ibrahim's general demeanor, was highly probable.
Ibrahim merely smiled. "Why, then I thank you for volunteering your services."
"What's wrong with Emyl?" I challenged, not noticing the bite in Harriet's lip nor the smirk on Hamlet's. Emyl too had a look of puzzlement about him, but with an undertone of offense.
Ibrahim remained indifferent. "As exceptional as Guardian Burlatsky here is, the situation requires a bit of subtlety - a facade. And, while I daresay my acting skills are rather well developed, they do have their limitations."
A flash of understanding came upon Emyl's naturally placid features and he nodded a little. Me, still lost. "What are you talking about?"
"Guardian Hathaway, we are going on a date."
It took me a moment, but eventually I came back around from the blinding shock that was that sentence to retort with one of my own. "Excuse me?"
"It is the most logical plan," Hamlet said before Ibrahim could, "The restaurant to the Ritz is open to the public-" he paused and reconsidered, "well...the richer half, that is." I pursed my lips and clenched my jaw, not liking this one bit. "You'll have to play along for about half an hour, an hour max. Just so you blend in, before locating Guerra, then Ibrahim here will initiate a questioning." Hamlet explained like it was just popping down the street for some milk, though with all the shit going on right now, popping out for some milk could well be comparable to a undercover mission into a terrorist sect.
Getting irritated with my brain as it continually stopped my attempts to think of a way out of this situation, I sighed. Ibrahim, still standing casually in front of me like there was nothing wrong with this (though from his perspective, nothing probably was), locked his gaze with mine. "So, Guardian Hathaway: will you go out with me?"
I glared at him and sighed again. "Superficially."
Ibrahim grinned. "Good enough, come on." he said, striding out of the room.
I blinked after him. "Wait, right now?"
Ibrahim didn't even turned around. "I'd refer you to Miss Conta, who had a similar question earlier on."
I glared at him again.
Harriet's slight giggle from behind resulted in the glare being directed at her, though she did not seem to mind. "Janine!" I heard him call.
Exhaling loudly, I marched out of the room in the direction he went. "Is this how you treat all your dates?" I snarked.
His head poked out of a doorway and made me jump. He smiled. "Only the superficial ones."
"Oh, ha ha." I mocked wandering into the room after he gestured me in. I gaped at the sight of it: a closet essentially the size of my apartment back at court. The muted yellow walls were covered in racks of clothes: jackets, suits, dresses and shoes. It glistened as though it were a mineral show and everything was arranged by colour, style and cloth. As with the rest of the house, you could loose yourself in here. If I were Harriet, I would probably have fainted by now. As it was, my shock came from the very notion that a male reverend, who part-times in mob-work, would have a closet that looked directly taken from Vogue or something of that sort.
I saw Ibrahim out of the corner of my eye and looked over towards him. "Is he insane?" I asked.
Ibrahim, needing no further development on what I was talking about, nodded, amused. "Insanely well-off, perhaps." he said. "See anything you like?"
I faced him fully. "You are not serious." I said as flatly as I was able.
He responded with equal conviction. "Absolutely."
I gaped for a moment, before regaining some composure. "I am not some Barbie doll you can just dress-up when you feel like it." I snapped.
"No," he affirmed carefully, "what you are is my date for the evening at one of the most prestigious hotels in the city, and right now you look like you've just walked out of ASDA."
I glared at him again. "You know this is silly. We aren't going to get a table on basically two seconds notice."
Ibrahim quirked a brow and I realised that, yes, we probably were.
"I'll try not to be too offended by your disinterest, but if you would pick something it would be most helpful." he said, gesturing towards the rack of dresses.
"I hate dresses." I said flatly, the words sending me right back to the beginning of this mess.
Ibrahim paused for a moment, eyeing me curiously. "Why?"
"What?"
"Why do you hate them?" his tone conveyed a sense of genuine interest, rather than the usual contempt I was met with.
I suddenly felt very uncomfortable, which was a little ironic considering. "They make me uncomfortable"
He frowned. "About what?"
I stuttered a little, my shoulders rising up to shrug involuntarily. "I don't know, they just do." As dismissive as it was, I didn't want to go into it.
He pondered for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Okay, but may I ask you - just for this night - to trudge through the discomfort and pretend to be my pretentious and self-absorbed girlfriend with a silver spoon up her arse...superficially." he said, with a light smile.
I laughed a little and shook my head. "You know, I don't think they are all like that."
He shrugged. "Perhaps not, but that seems to be the overarching theme." I frowned a little, his comments peaking my curiosity, but I kept this to myself. "So, let's start basic: colour?"
I sighed, looking around a little at the veritable rainbow that surrounded me. "I have no idea."
Smiling, he replied, "Would you allow me, or is that too Barbie-ish?"
I rolled my eyes and he grinned. Turning away for a moment, he scanned the room before pulling out perhaps the pinkest thing I had ever seen: it was bright, loud and frilly. He held it towards me and I glared at him. "I am going to smack you."
He chuckled. "Ah, I do love a woman with a bit of spice." he said with a wink, before turning back to re-examine. I folded my arms over my chest and cast my glance out the door. Harriet was most likely still sitting on the floor, submerged in her investigation, except now Emyl was there for her to talk to and he'd always listen. Hamlet, I imagined, was already on getting us a reservation and quite possibly still chasing down more leads. I had to hand to the man, he could really work and work well. Perhaps we did judge him too quickly…?
I was brought out of my musings with Ibrahim holding up a long, forest green evening gown; silken, with off-shoulder sleeves but the darker green material underneath left no room for exposed skin. It was elegant and I liked how it looked, but I wasn't sure how far that would go to stop the discomfort that would likely follow.
"Huh." I said.
"You like?" Ibrahim asked, still emoting confidence and his usual deviousness, but there was a certain trepidation in his voice.
"It looks nice." I replied.
He cocked a brow. "I shall take that as a yes." he handed to me and gestured towards the small bathroom that adjoined the closet.
I eyed it cautiously, my fingers snaking through the material out of nervousness, which I covered up with my usual snarky defense. "Getting a little Barbie-ish." I said.
Ibrahim laughed. "If it brings you any comfort, I was suggesting you harbour yourself in there to both try it on and allow me to get into my 'costume' for the evening."
I looked at the crisp, perfectly tailored suit he was wearing a frowned. "You look fine."
"I'm flattered, but I need a dress shirt."
"What's wrong with the one you are wearing?"
He paused for a minute before shaking his head. "Bless you, Janine." he chuckled, before turning away to find a more 'suitable' shirt. I shrugged and hurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. It was then that I spent the next five minutes staring at the dress, rather than putting it on. It was truly beautiful, artful no less with its gentle floral patterns and seeped into the lacing, entwining like ivy against a tree. It was a really nice dress, but I still didn't like it. I had always hated dresses; they made me feel vulnerable and exposed. There was a certain security I could draw with wrapping myself in jackets and trousers, but with a dress it flowed free and with it came a constant paranoia that everyone could see past the barriers I had fought to construct. They were also impractical, more often than not over the top and held a sole purpose of being an object of admiration, effectively objectifying the person underneath - drawing on their appearance above all else. I hated them, but that didn't matter. Today I would have to suffer through it; this mission was far more important than a silly little grudge against an inanimate object. For Pete's sake, pull yourself together, Hathaway. I resolved and grabbed the blasted thing, stripping down to my underwear and sliding the material over my head. It slid down with ease, fitting me perfectly. Either Ibrahim was incredibly observant or he'd gotten Vincent to read my mind to find out my dress size; regardless, I couldn't help but be impressed. The skirt brushed against my bare legs and fell to just pool against the ground, covering my feet. I still wasn't overly comfortable, but the extent of covering was enough to put me at a little ease. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, but turned away quickly. Taking a few deep breaths, I unlocked the door and eased out.
"Ah, I thought you had died-" Ibrahim cut himself shot and closed his mouth. I looked over him critically.
"You look exactly the same." I stated.
He remained silent for a moment before replying. "As do you."
I scoffed. "Funny. So, is this alright then?" I said, looking down at the material over me.
"Perfectly." he replied.
I sighed, my eyes still down. "Okay, let's get this over with. Do we know that he is definitely going to be there?"
"He'll be there." Ibrahim said with confidence.
I narrowed my eyes. "That's not a yes."
He smiled. "Do you not trust me?"
I raised my eyebrows. "I let you put me in this thing." I pointed out.
He smiled. "Then we're good."
Twenty minutes later, we were also out the door. I should have really known not to have been in any way surprised when Hamlet had walked in and began accessorising me with one simple look, but he had a good eye for arrangement and composition. His whole house told us that, with every room so perfectly furnished and with a colour scheme that remained both interesting, consistent and beautiful throughout. He was clearly a man who appreciated fine things, expensive things for sure. Vincent too had come from a long line of wealth. I knew nothing of the history of Jean-Paul Boursain, but from my brief encounter with la renard, it seemed he too had the airs of a higher-class living.
So what was Ibrahim's issue with it?
The question swirled in my head and was enough to distract me from the long taxi drive to the Ritz hotel. Maybe I was just misreading him: I mean, he had never mentioned anything of the sort and his own wardrobe was something of a marvel, but I couldn't shake the feeling. Dear God, this man was infuriating.
We hopped out the cab a few blocks down from where the hotel was situated. Ibrahim paid the driver and thanked him while I very much reconsidered my agreeing to this; if my feet were sore in my sturdy combat boots, they were now at a whole new level in the heels that Hamlet, Ibrahim and Harriet had forced me into. I did not see the problem with wearing the boots, you wouldn't see them anyway, but apparently that was neither a valid point nor in any way acceptable for the situation, so I found my argument promptly shut down. I shifted my weight from side to side in a vain attempt to relieve some of the pressure, but to no avail.
I saw Ibrahim come beside me, looking down upon me curiously. "Are you alright there, Janine?" he asked.
I grunted. "I hate heels."
He chuckled. "As do I." he said.
I glanced up at his face and laughed. He grinned widely, the moonlight flashed against his fangs, and he extended his arm out for me to take. I hesitated for a moment before slotting my arm through his. In actuality, holding onto him really helped with the heel situation, but there was no way he was knowing about that.
The Ritz was ridiculous. I had to struggle to keep my mouth from dropping through the floor and out the other side of the bloody Earth. A decorative mix of red velvets and silks, with cream marble surfaces and glistening gold in every glance. The foyer alone seemed to span for miles, with such a light from the diamond chandelier as to be confused with an exploding star. And then there were the people: dressed in their finest with a collection that could rival that of the Royal family. Queen Tatiana had nothing on these painted people. I hesitated in even thinking 'people' was the correct form of address: they appeared so different from what I considered normal that they were positively alien to me.
I felt my hand grip tighter on Ibrahim's sleeve. "Bloody hell." I muttered.
"Mhmm" He hummed, still smiling and acting as though he was completely fine in this environment.
"Are you sure there's a restaurant in here?" Who was I kidding, there was probably a blooming cathedral located in the basement.
Ibrahim nodded over to the far side of the wall to our right. "Through there." I swallowed, but apparently loud enough for him to hear. "You doing okay?"
"I'm fine, just...out of place." I said, glancing towards a woman who looked like she was wearing just sapphires.
With one final sweep of the room, Ibrahim lead me towards the entrance of the restaurant, walking casually but with a certain haste. He greeted the waiter in Turkish and the waiter replied with the same amicability. I resisted rolling my eyes. Of course he knew him.
We were lead into an even richer area; the colour had deepened so the calming white of the marble had morphed to a star-studded black; the crimson fabrics draped the wall and hung down like blood from a hangman's neck. The scent was intoxicating, overpowering even. I felt I could fall over at any time, and not just because I kept fumbling on my heels. Thankfully, my folly was covered by both my dress and the fact our table was approaching. Ibrahim let go of me for a moment to pull out the chair. I covered my slight surprise with a smile and sat down as he tucked it in behind me.
The waiter said something to Ibrahim, who replied with a nod. When the chap had left, I addressed the Moroi. "Could we keep the convo in English?" I said. My Russian was bad, but at least I had basic idea. I had no idea where to start on Turkish.
Ibrahim smiled. "Of course. He asked if we wanted wine."
I shot my head up. "We can't drink on the job."
"Why not? I do it all the time." he said.
I glared at him a little. "Increased delirium is not going to be even slightly helpful."
"Ah, but increased calmness is." he countered. "Thank you, by the way, for agreeing to this. I know this is not exactly your forte-"
I waved him off. "It is my job."
He nodded a little, though his slight falter had me wincing at my abruptness. "Quite."
I decided to keep the discussion going. "Have you spotted Guerra yet?"
He chuckled. "Well, I have only just sat down..."
"Sorry." I apologised, but he waved me off before casting his eyes around the room. I became transfixed, watching the deep brown orbs scan the room in slow surveillance. It was enchanting as I saw the concentration deepen in his brow, but his eyes remained as wide and as brilliant as they always were. I blinked and desperately tried to look away, finding it almost impossible as everything about him drew me closer. I was actually relieved when the waiter came back to give us our wine.
"Tekrar merhaba, Ibrahim." he said.
Ibrahim smiled, his eyes ceasing their study to look up at the man. "İngilizce konuşabiliyor musunuz, Danyal?"
He smiled and turned to me. "Yes, forgive me, madam."
"Oh, no problem at all. I'm Janine," I said, figuring if he already knew Ibrahim's name, it would be weird not to know mine. Also, I disliked being addressed as 'madam' so it worked both ways.
The waiter gave a little bow. "Danyal, a pleasure. I hope you enjoy." And with that he departed.
Ibrahim was giving me an amused look and I instantly tensed. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, pouring himself a glass of the beverage. "Tell me, do you flirt with everyone when you go on a date?"
I dropped my jaw, "I was not- this is not- you know what, give me some of that." I said, reaching for the bottle. Ibrahim, rather childishly, pulled it out of my reach and held it so I could not, with my short limbs, take it from him. I scowled and he conceded, chuckling as he passed it towards me. I filled a sizable glass before setting the bottle down and picking it up.
"Cheers," Ibrahim said, holding his glass out towards me. I sighed but complied and Ibrahim looked very pleased with himself as a result. "Two o'clock." he said.
I frowned for a moment, but my eyes inadvertently cast themselves in the military direction, resting upon a middle-aged man, with a rounded stomach and chins that could run for Congress watching as a young female waitress with long black hair scraped into a bun placed a plate filled with some form of sea-creature on before him. He nodded towards her, smiling and saying something before she walked away and he tucked in.
I brought my attention back to Ibrahim. "That's him?"
"That's him: Christán Guerra." he affirmed, taking a sip of his wine.
My eyes darted towards the large man again before returning back as quickly as they had left. "Okay, what's your plan?"
Ibrahim smirked for a moment, picking up the menu and perusing it for a moment. "The fish here is lovely…"
I scowled. "Be serious. Please. For just one second."
His eyes flicked towards me over the top of the menu. "I am always serious, Guardian Hathaway." he said. "We need to wait until he leaves; it would be fruitless to make a scene now. Not to mention if he is a member, a public spectacle would most likely result in either us, him or all of us getting killed to prevent word about La Luz' inner workings. So for now, we enjoy the food." he said with a smile.
I remained a little sceptical but did not dispute. Glancing down at the menu and skimmed the options...then saw the price. "What the-" I cut myself off. Ibrahim looked over his menu again, frowning a little at my reaction. I merely gawked. "How are we paying for this?"
Ibrahim smiled. "We have good funding."
"Clearly, I wouldn't be able to afford a boiled egg on here!" I said, doing my best to try at keep my voice down.
"Turkish eggs are divine - it is rather a shame we are not going to be here for breakfast as menemen is decidedly transcendental." he said, his eyes back on the menu. "If I may be so bold, might I recommend the mantı."
"What is it?" I asked, scanning the menu for anything beginning with an 'm'.
"Dumplings that look a little like ravioli, but are far superior." he said before adding, "In my opinion, that is."
I ended up ordering it anyway. I spent most of the evening glancing towards Guerra, watching his every move carefully and then observing the room to see if anyone was doing the same. I managed to maintain a good discourse with Ibrahim and eat this 'ravioli dumplings' that were placed before me and were definitely worth the recommendation. There was something about the man; call it a hunch or instinct, but I definitely felt that something was off. He seemed too...normal. Too calm. Maybe he knew we were there and perhaps even what we intended to do. Either way, something wrong and I couldn't put my finger on it.
"If you frown any harder, you'll be fixed that way forever." Ibrahim's voice brought my attention away from Guerra and back to him.
I scowled. "I'll bear that in mind." I muttered and he smiled. "Does everything feel alright to you?"
He paused, laying his fork down at his plate as he studied me with a sense of curiosity and minor confusion. "How do you mean?"
I pondered for a moment, wondering how best to phrase my inward concerns without sounding completely mad. "I've just got a feeling that something's not right."
"With Guerra?"
I nodded. "It's probably nothing." I said, entertaining the possibility that I may have just been mistaking my own personal discomfort for an actual issue.
Ibrahim shook his head. "No, dismiss it not: instinct is often good, and I trust yours more than most." he said.
I was slightly taken aback, but had no time to react as movement in the corner of my eye alerted me to a new development: Guerra was on the move. Ibrahim, who had been observing the man by the large mirror behind me, perked up; his eyebrows rose and his eyes locked onto the large man like Big Brother over Airstrip One as he rose and began to make his way through the maze of tables and dining couples towards the exit that lead back into the hotel.
"Well, my dear," I Ibrahim said, "I think it is time we made a move…"
Hello!
As much as I try and stay away from it, unfortunately (much like Janine in this case) I do not know much/anything about the Turkish language so I will confess that Google Translate has been used. If you do speak Turkish, please feel free to correct me there as I really do not wish to offend or misrepresent.
Much love, M x
