route," Wilfork said. He stubbed the cigarette out in a red ceramic
dish. "Still, burgers do seem peculiarly appropriate. Cook on!"
Everybody else agreed. So did Annja, somewhat to her surprise. She enjoyed
eating the food of the area she was working in, and particularly liked Turkish
food, as it happened. But sometimes a hamburger just sounded right.
Trish seemed to read her expression. "Me, too," she said. "We're
such Americans."
Josh frowned. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."
"What about you, Rabbi?" Annja asked hastily. "Are you all right
with burgers?"
"Hold the cheese," he said with a smile.
What Annja thought was the other twin came out wearing a white apron.
"Good news," he said. "We have the makings for milk shakes, too.
Chocolate, vanilla. Strawberry if you don't mind it made out of
preserves."
"Any soy?" Trish asked.
"No. 'Fraid not."
Trish made a face. "I'll take yogurt. It's Turkey. Surely they have
yogurt."
The twin nodded. "There's yogurt."
"Well, I don't know about anybody else," Charlie Bostitch said,
"but I could go for a milk shake. What about you, Ms. Creed?"
"Absolutely," she said with a smile.
Trish turned her a look as if to say, you traitor. Annja started to smile it
off, but then got a weird unsettling feeling Trish was actually mad at her.
She shook her head. You're getting weird and silly, she told herself. Fatigue
poisons are messing with your mind and emotions, that's all.
Everybody else wanted milk shakes, even Jason and Tommy. The twin returned into
the kitchen, from which the sound of sizzling beef now came. Everyone seemed to
sink into a sort of mellow fugue state. Pleased to be alive and free and safe
for the moment.
Whatever happened next.
Chapter 11
"So," Trish said,
peering out the window at the landscape rolling by the battered, drafty,
rattling bus, "do you think these sheep are where they get angora from? I
mean, it's named after Ankara, right?"
The provincial capital of Erzurum lay in high country at the eastern end of
Anatolia and Turkey. Annja, who had been charmed by Sivas, ancient Sebasteia or
not, was less enamored of Erzurum.
They passed through mountains and tall mesas, and between them snow-covered
plains dotted by occasional herds of depressed-looking sheep, huddled closely
together against wind that was often snow-laden and never seemed to let up
buffeting the bus.
"We're a long way from Ankara, man," Tommy said. He sat with his Mets
cap turned around backward and a disgruntled look on his face.
"It's still the Anatolian Plateau, isn't it, Annja?" Jason asked.
"Yes."
He shrugged. "So maybe."
"Angora is made from the hair of goats," Robyn Wilfork said
authoritatively. He laid aside the copy of Der Spiegel he'd bought along
with a sheaf of other multilingual magazines at a truck stop west of Sivas. He sat behind the CHM contingent, between them and the Rehoboam Christian Leadership Academy group at the back of the bus, in front of massed luggage.
"Also rabbits, peculiarly enough."
"Seriously?" Trish asked.
"Seriously," Wilfork said, sounding sober as a bishop. Which he was,
unless he'd managed to smuggle a hip flask aboard and hit it while nobody was
looking. Annja didn't think he had.
"Is that right, Annja?" Trish asked.
"I think so. Textiles and fabric arts are a little out of my line, though.
I'm more up on old manuscripts and stuff you dig up out of the ground.
Artifacts, I mean. Not metals and minerals or anything."
"So you don't know anything about sheep."
"No."
Trish sighed and turned her snub-nosed face back to the window.
"If it makes you feel better," Wilfork said solicitously, "Erzurum did garner a modicum of fame for massacres during the Armenian genocide."
Trish had nothing to say to that.
The roadside motel where they overnighted outside of Sivas boasted beds with
the consistency of butcher blocks. Exhausted from sheer stress, Annja had slept
as she usually did—totally, deeply, bonelessly and ever alert to snap to
instant
dish. "Still, burgers do seem peculiarly appropriate. Cook on!"
Everybody else agreed. So did Annja, somewhat to her surprise. She enjoyed
eating the food of the area she was working in, and particularly liked Turkish
food, as it happened. But sometimes a hamburger just sounded right.
Trish seemed to read her expression. "Me, too," she said. "We're
such Americans."
Josh frowned. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."
"What about you, Rabbi?" Annja asked hastily. "Are you all right
with burgers?"
"Hold the cheese," he said with a smile.
What Annja thought was the other twin came out wearing a white apron.
"Good news," he said. "We have the makings for milk shakes, too.
Chocolate, vanilla. Strawberry if you don't mind it made out of
preserves."
"Any soy?" Trish asked.
"No. 'Fraid not."
Trish made a face. "I'll take yogurt. It's Turkey. Surely they have
yogurt."
The twin nodded. "There's yogurt."
"Well, I don't know about anybody else," Charlie Bostitch said,
"but I could go for a milk shake. What about you, Ms. Creed?"
"Absolutely," she said with a smile.
Trish turned her a look as if to say, you traitor. Annja started to smile it
off, but then got a weird unsettling feeling Trish was actually mad at her.
She shook her head. You're getting weird and silly, she told herself. Fatigue
poisons are messing with your mind and emotions, that's all.
Everybody else wanted milk shakes, even Jason and Tommy. The twin returned into
the kitchen, from which the sound of sizzling beef now came. Everyone seemed to
sink into a sort of mellow fugue state. Pleased to be alive and free and safe
for the moment.
Whatever happened next.
Chapter 11
"So," Trish said,
peering out the window at the landscape rolling by the battered, drafty,
rattling bus, "do you think these sheep are where they get angora from? I
mean, it's named after Ankara, right?"
The provincial capital of Erzurum lay in high country at the eastern end of
Anatolia and Turkey. Annja, who had been charmed by Sivas, ancient Sebasteia or
not, was less enamored of Erzurum.
They passed through mountains and tall mesas, and between them snow-covered
plains dotted by occasional herds of depressed-looking sheep, huddled closely
together against wind that was often snow-laden and never seemed to let up
buffeting the bus.
"We're a long way from Ankara, man," Tommy said. He sat with his Mets
cap turned around backward and a disgruntled look on his face.
"It's still the Anatolian Plateau, isn't it, Annja?" Jason asked.
"Yes."
He shrugged. "So maybe."
"Angora is made from the hair of goats," Robyn Wilfork said
authoritatively. He laid aside the copy of Der Spiegel he'd bought along
with a sheaf of other multilingual magazines at a truck stop west of Sivas. He sat behind the CHM contingent, between them and the Rehoboam Christian Leadership Academy group at the back of the bus, in front of massed luggage.
"Also rabbits, peculiarly enough."
"Seriously?" Trish asked.
"Seriously," Wilfork said, sounding sober as a bishop. Which he was,
unless he'd managed to smuggle a hip flask aboard and hit it while nobody was
looking. Annja didn't think he had.
"Is that right, Annja?" Trish asked.
"I think so. Textiles and fabric arts are a little out of my line, though.
I'm more up on old manuscripts and stuff you dig up out of the ground.
Artifacts, I mean. Not metals and minerals or anything."
"So you don't know anything about sheep."
"No."
Trish sighed and turned her snub-nosed face back to the window.
"If it makes you feel better," Wilfork said solicitously, "Erzurum did garner a modicum of fame for massacres during the Armenian genocide."
Trish had nothing to say to that.
The roadside motel where they overnighted outside of Sivas boasted beds with
the consistency of butcher blocks. Exhausted from sheer stress, Annja had slept
as she usually did—totally, deeply, bonelessly and ever alert to snap to
instant
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