Blue Voyage Page 16

  I shot a grateful look at Mom. Finally she’d said something in my defense.

  “We will certainly be looking for him,” said Inspector Kemal. “Perhaps he had some distinctive identifying characteristics? Or his boat?” He turned to a fresh page in his notepad.

  I mentioned the blue tarp I’d seen in the back, and he made a note of it.

  “And now we’ve told you all we know, so you should let us leave,” Aunt Jackie concluded. “Back to Istanbul. Our flight leaves in fifteen minutes. We might just make it.”

  “I’m afraid it is not so simple,” said Inspector Kemal, his eyebrows knitting together. “Your descriptions and accounts are quite useful for us. But this remains a serious matter for your niece. Turkey has very strict laws about the purchase and transport of antiquities, which include any artifacts made before the year 1923. You did not purchase these figures, you say. But you are transporting them. This also can be a crime.”

  “What!” Mom exclaimed.

  “You can only buy certain artifacts from authorized dealers who have a certificate from a museum for every item they sell,” said Sergeant Emre, blowing his nose loudly. “You may not purchase or transport any antiquity or any questionable item in Turkey without a proper certificate. Even if you think you have only an inexpensive replica, you still need a certificate to prove that it is not authentic.”

  “Jackie, did you know this?” Mom asked quietly, leaning in toward my aunt.

  “I did,” Aunt Jackie whispered. “It’s why I carried a certificate for the replica of that seahorse urn.”

  Mom looked at the inspector again. “And where does one obtain such a certificate?”

  “If the vendor does not provide it at the time of purchase, then you need to consult a museum,” said the sergeant.

  “Okay, so we don’t have a certificate for a gift we received. We weren’t aware of the law, and we weren’t even aware that we had received this . . . this gift. All right. So we’ll pay the fine. We have a flight to Istanbul, and we need to be on it.” Mom reached into her bag for her wallet. “How much is it? I have cash. I can get more.”

  “Ah,” said Inspector Kemal. His mouth twitched. “I am sorry. You see, the items must be authenticated either as artifacts or as replicas before I can let you go.”

  Mom slowly looked up from her purse.

  “If they are determined to be fakes, you will receive a certificate, and we will release you,” he went on. “If they are authenticated, you will face charges. Five to ten years in prison.”

  “Five to ten years!” Mom exploded.

  “You could expect at least one month incarcerated, pending a hearing.”

  Aunt Jackie looked sick again. She hugged herself and rocked back and forth in her chair. “I know all about this,” she said in a grim tone. “My husband—my late husband—used to do this type of work. Listen, if you could show me a list of authenticators you work with locally, I can probably tell you if he knew any of them around here.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Inspector Kemal said smoothly. “We have our preferred contacts, thank you.”

  The walls seemed to move in on me. “Wait a second,” I said to the police. “I had no idea these things were in my pack. Are you saying that if they turn out to be real antiquities, I’m still considered guilty for transporting them and I could be in jail?”

  Inspector Kemal nodded. “This is how the law works,” he said briskly, sliding each of the gold figurines into plastic bags. “Meanwhile, while we await the appraisal, I must detain the three of you here.”

  Mom, Aunt Jackie, and I exchanged alarmed looks.

  “In the best of circumstances, I can arrange for a museum employee to come today,” the inspector continued. “We have a detention facility at the Dalaman Police Station, where you can be relocated. They can accommodate overnight stays. Or longer.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Aunt Jackie, her voice loud but trembling. “I’m a resident of this country. A business owner. And I’m pregnant.” She switched to Turkish, speaking in a cool, even tone. Mom and I stared at her in awe. Go, Aunt Jackie! I thought. My next thought chased that away: Prison. Holy crap.

  I felt like I’d lost my footing on a climbing wall.

  I guess Aunt Jackie had failed to convince them. “I’m sorry,” the inspector said curtly, as he and the sergeant stood up.

  She stood up, too, so fast her chair fell. “I demand to call my counselor in Istanbul.”

  “Certainly. You may place a call.” The inspector motioned to Sergeant Emre, who left the room and returned a moment later with a cordless phone receiver.

  Aunt Jackie looked in her wallet, found a business card, and dialed a number. “No answer,” she said, her face falling. “My lawyer’s not in.” She left a voice mail message, in Turkish, and hung up with a defeated look on her face.

  “Call Berk’s brother or sister,” Mom suggested.

  Aunt Jackie bit her lip. “I—I can’t,” she faltered.

  “Jackie, they’re still your family, even if Berk’s gone,” said Mom. “They should help.”

  Aunt Jackie shook her head. “We don’t really get along. Right now.” She paused. “Actually? They don’t know I left the hotel. I can’t tell them that.”

  I felt for her, remembering how badly she wanted the hotel to succeed, and how Serhan and Ayla were sniffing around it lately, looking for any excuse to sell.

  Abruptly, Inspector Kemal and Sergeant Emre stood up. “I cannot sit here all day with you,” said the inspector. “We must contact our museum consultants now.” He picked up the cordless phone and the figurines, and he and Sergeant Emre turned and left the room.

  Mom turned to me. “Zan,” she said in a shaky voice, “are you sure, absolutely sure, that Sage bought the figurines from the baklava vendor, and that she put them into your bag?”

  I stared at her. “What are you getting at?”

  “Is there any chance you might have taken them from Sage’s room—even to look at—and that you might have, well . . .”

  “I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re getting at. God, Mom! Why do you keep treating me like I’m the only criminal in the family?”

  Mom folded her arms across her chest. “What did you just say?”

  “Think back. The Athleta incident. What were you and Dad busy doing when I was there? You were holding a press conference, deceiving the good people of Massachusetts. Lying. About working on the marriage and the family. But I knew you weren’t really going to. Dad was already packing his bags.” I was shaking now. I’d never voiced these words; the thoughts had only been in the background of my mind. But now they surged forward like a strong tide.

  Aunt Jackie came up behind me and put an arm around me.

  Emboldened, I continued. “I couldn’t stand there in front of TV cameras, wearing that ridiculous outfit and a hairstyle that wasn’t mine, and pretend everything was going to be fine. So I swiped a couple of outfits that day. I admitted it. I said I was sorry. But Dad had an affair. And then you and Dad both lied to the public, saying we were all working on fixing our family. Just to win support for his campaign! So don’t act like I’m the only bad guy in town. Just don’t.”

  My mom’s face twisted up. “Zan. A lot was at stake with that press conference. Not just for your dad, but for our whole family. I was trying to protect you, too.”

  “Protect me? Ha.”

  “Look, I know you’re still processing all this stuff. It’s hard. And we need to talk it through. But at the moment we have more pressing concerns.”

  “Well, I didn’t take anything. I’m as surprised as you are to see those figurines in my bag.”

  “Of course Zan didn’t steal the figurines, Kitsie,” Aunt Jackie scolded. “Now can we all calm down a little, please, and just think this through?”

  “Yes, let’s
just think this through,” I said, shifting closer to Aunt Jackie.

  “I’m losing my mind,” Mom said, sinking into a chair. “They say interrogation rooms can do that to you. Make you crazy.”

  “Let’s not catastrophize. We’ve only been in here for thirty minutes,” said Aunt Jackie.

  “But you heard the guy. We could be here much longer,” Mom said. “And no offense? You look terrible. I’m really worried about you.”

  “I’m a little worried, too,” Aunt Jackie confessed, as she and I sat back down at the table. “In the restroom, I noticed I was bleeding a little. It’s not just cramps now.”

  “What? Jackie! You need a doctor! And it’s way too warm in here for you.” Mom got up and repositioned the useless fan so that it stirred up the air around Aunt Jackie.

  “I know. But we can’t get out until the museum expert comes,” said Aunt Jackie.

  “And they’re probably going to get authenticated as real antiquities,” I added.

  We all stared at each other glumly. We knew what would happen then. Prison. One month minimum just to wait for a hearing. Five to ten years if convicted.

  Nobody wanted to say it out loud.

  Two hours passed. Our flight to Istanbul left without us. Once, someone came in to bring us water, but otherwise we were left alone, with no updates, and no chance to make any more calls.

  I studied my reflection in the chrome edge of the chair. I could see some white splotches emerging on my left cheek, and I reached for my backpack to grab for my cover-up on instinct, before remembering it had all been confiscated. Then I realized I didn’t care so much about the cover-up, or even what I looked like right now.

  Aunt Jackie sat as close to the fan as possible and closed her eyes.

  “This is a nightmare,” Mom said. “If you lose your baby, I’m holding the Turkish police responsible. The airport, too. And that baklava seller, while I’m at it.”

  Lose the baby! I hadn’t seriously thought of that happening. But my aunt had miscarried before. Several times. It was a real possibility. My hands curled into fists. The baby was the one bright thing that had kept Aunt Jackie going through this dark time. If she lost her baby because she couldn’t get medical attention in time, that would be Sage’s fault, too.

  Aunt Jackie moaned softly and leaned forward in her chair.

  My heart thudded. “Should we call Dad?” I ventured. He’d be pissed, hearing I’d been caught with something stolen again. But I was truly innocent this time. All of us were. “Maybe he knows someone at the embassy,” I added hopefully. Suddenly I remembered how he’d once saved a friend of mine from drowning in our swimming pool. We were kids, and my viti-ligo wasn’t so bad then, so I used to swim like a fish. My friend, who couldn’t swim, had slipped and fallen into the pool. My dad had dived in after her, fully clothed, and saved her. I felt so proud to have a dad who could save people.

  Mom massaged her temples. “I cannot call your father.”

  Aunt Jackie couldn’t call her in-laws, and Mom couldn’t call Dad—so much for pulling together as a family. “Oh, I get it. You just don’t want him to know this trip was a bust.”

  “That is not true, Zan. This situation is way out of his jurisdiction. And if he does make calls, and the media hears about it, we’ll be in the spotlight again. There’s got to be some other solution.”

  I thought a moment about what Mom and I had just argued about. Maybe there was another way to look at the whole lying thing. As long as the people in my family were all masters of deceit, maybe we could swing that talent in our favor. “I have an idea. It’s right up your alley, Mom. We’ll stage an event. A medical event.”

  Mom and Aunt Jackie exchanged a look.

  I explained my plan.

  “It might work,” said Aunt Jackie. “I’m up for trying, anyway.”

  “And there’s a foundation of truth underneath it,” Mom admitted. “You aren’t well. We’re just going to amplify your condition.”

  Minutes later, Aunt Jackie was stretched out on the floor, her head resting on a pillow made of jackets. We put water on her face to make her look even sweatier than she was. Mom moved a lamp slightly to cast dark shadows on Aunt Jackie’s face. Then I pounded on the door and yelled for help. When Inspector Kemal came in to check on us, we explained that Aunt Jackie was ill. She was ill, but the lighting tricks and some acting skills on Aunt Jackie’s part made her situation look more dire than it really was.

  “She could lose the baby. We need help,” Mom insisted when the inspector came in, wringing her hands like someone in an old-fashioned movie. “Please, let us go to a hospital.”

  The inspector took a long look at Aunt Jackie, who moaned convincingly.

  “If she miscarries here, and that makes the news, it might not look too good,” Mom added softly, lowering her eyes. “For Turkish tourism. You know? I have connections to the US government,” she added. “My husband is attorney general of Massachusetts.”

  I stared at her. So she’d played the husband card after all. It was weird to hear her say “my husband” after everything that had happened. But technically he was still attorney general, and technically they were still married. She had every right to say that. And for a moment, it sounded nice to hear. I imagined my dad leaping for the phone, taking that call.

  Inspector Kemal pressed his lips together while he thought. “All right,” he said at last. “I will call her an ambulance to the local hospital. You two will stay here.”

  Oh, no. The possibility that we could be separated hadn’t even entered my mind!

  “I’m taking care of her,” Mom insisted, holding Aunt Jackie’s hand. “I’m her only family here right now. She’s a widow. We can’t be separated. And my daughter has to come, too. She’s only sixteen.” Mom put an arm around each of us, signaling that we were a family unit. I leaned in close to her for added effect. It would have made for a great family portrait.

  Now Inspector Kemal looked exasperated. “That is out of the question,” he said curtly. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.

  We waited, huddled together, whispering about what might happen.

  “I’m not going without you,” Aunt Jackie insisted, squeezing both our hands.

  “Go,” Mom told her. “You need medical attention. We’ll be fine. We’ll get through this.” She looked doubtful, though.

  “Just don’t let them transfer you to another facility,” said Aunt Jackie. “You don’t want to end up in the police station, that’s for sure. Then you’re there with everyone.” She shuddered. “And once you’re in, it’s hard to get out. It’s best if you stay at the airport. And I’ll keep trying my lawyer from the hospital.”

  “Okay,” Mom whispered. She looked really scared, like the younger sister instead of the older. And Aunt Jackie looked terrible; I couldn’t tell anymore how much she was faking versus how much was real. She looked worse than ever, as if she were truly uncomfortable.

  The two of them hugged. Then Aunt Jackie embraced me, and stroked my hair. “Take care of your mom, Zan,” she said.

  “Hey. Don’t act like we won’t see you again,” Mom said. “We will. Right? This will all get sorted out. I bet this happens to tourists all the time.”

  The door banged open. Inspector Kemal entered, flanked by two paramedics, one pushing a wheelchair. They loaded Aunt Jackie into it. She blew us a kiss and gave us a worried glance behind her as they wheeled her out of the room.

  Inspector Kemal turned to us. “Now we will go,” he said.

  “Go? Go where?” Mom asked, wide-eyed.

  “My boss, Inspector Lale Demir, would like to speak with you personally. She is head of Istanbul’s department for investigating ancient stolen artifacts.”

  “So we’re going to Istanbul?” I asked.

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Inspector Lale is in town for busine
ss. But she is busy at the local station, so I will take you there. Dalaman Police Station.”

  Mom and I exchanged an anguished look. Aunt Jackie had said not to leave the airport!

  “Now,” he insisted, holding the door open and ushering us out with his steely gaze.

  17

  The police station was an imposing white building encircled by a giant iron fence. Mom and I followed Inspector Kemal inside. We weren’t handcuffed; it crossed my mind that we could bolt. But they had our passports. And if I’d learned anything from all my encounters with store security guards, it was that it was best to cooperate with the law and not dig yourself into a deeper hole.

  We were put in a small, windowless holding room similar in size and furnishings to the one at the airport—better, in some ways, as it was clean and stark white. And it had air-conditioning. But it was like being stuck in a freezer. An hour passed, then another, and Mom and I found ourselves doing jumping jacks and jogging in place to stay warm.

  “With my sister in the hospital, we’re hardly a flight risk,” Mom grumbled.

  My stomach rumbled. It was close to dinnertime. “I’m starving,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Mom. “I had snacks in my bag, but that’s been taken. They’re probably authenticating my munchies, too.” She sighed. “You know, I kind of hate to admit it, but I’m missing Orhan’s cooking. Oh my God. That eggplant dish.”

  “I know. I’d give anything for some of that pita bread, too.”

  We reminisced about Orhan’s meals, even the fish served with their heads and eyes intact.

  “Mom,” I said, when we’d run out of imagined foods, “what if we don’t get out?”

  “We’ll get out,” she said firmly. “We’ll get the embassy involved if we have to. There are international lawyers. There is help. And there’s always the media to help put the pressure on them to let us go. I could contact someone at the New York Times.”

  The media. Great. More exposure. Just what our family needed.