The Star of Istanbul by Robert Olen Butler Page A

was most recently kicked shut by my heel while I had things on my mind other than securing the door, it was not locked.
    The door opened.
    A wide shaft of light fell upon Selene and me, sitting naked, side by side, on the parlor floor.
    Framed in dark silhouette in the doorway was Walter Brauer.
    â€œGet the hell out,” Selene barked.
    Walter flustered there. It made him even stupider. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
    â€œGet out,” she said.
    This is how stupid: with us sitting naked before him, he felt compelled to justify his middle of the night interruption. “I wanted to reassure you about the U-boats.”
    â€œMr. Brauer,” Selene said sharply.
    He blundered on: “They would stop us first, before sinking the ship.”
    â€œWe hardly know each other,” Selene said.
    â€œThe passengers would be allowed to disembark.”
    â€œI am naked, Mr. Brauer,” Selene said.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said.
    â€œSo is this gentleman,” Selene said.
    I knew what was driving Brauer. He was afraid a U-boat attack would upset their plans. This had occurred to him after Turner’s speech tonight. The attack could happen at any time, so for the sake of their conspiracy, he had to instruct her in an alternate plan, even if that meant doing it in the middle of the night.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said again.
    â€œGet out.” Without a single “s” in either word I’m not sure how Selene made that sound like a hiss. But she did.
    Brauer was finally getting the hint.
    He was starting to close the door. Not fast enough.
    â€œOut!” Selene cried.
    And the silhouette vanished; the door clicked shut; the room went dark.
    Selene and I sat there for a long moment not moving.
    I wanted to say, “Who the hell was that?” It was the best question to ask to perhaps elicit an unguarded response.
    But for maximum effect, it had to be asked instantly. I’d already waited too long.
    Which was for the best anyway: she might have seen Brauer and me speaking together; he might have mentioned me to her, as an unusually snoopy newsman she should take care to avoid. I didn’t want her to catch me in a lie, pretending not to know him.
    I said, “That was Walter Brauer, wasn’t it?”
    Though I could not see her in the dark, I could sense her face turn to me.
    Perhaps she didn’t know I’d encountered him. This could be just as useful, her abruptly realizing I knew him. I could even hint I knew about him.
    I waited. She waited. Then she said, “Yes.”
    â€œHow do you know him?” I asked.
    She called my bluff before I could get it started. “How do you?” she said.
    I still wanted to seem to both of them to be an ignorant third party. No verifiable lies. Nothing suspicious. “I met him around,” I said. “Had a drink and a smoke with him and a bookseller friend of his a few nights ago.”
    She did not reply to this. But along all the places where our arms and thighs were touching, I felt a faint loosening of tension in her.
    â€œAnd you?” I said.
    â€œSomething similar,” she said.
    â€œReally?” I meant this rhetorically, but I heard it sound like a challenge. It was already spoken, so I went ahead with the rest of it, even as I felt her tensing again. “He seemed awfully forward in the middle of the night,” I said.
    She snorted. It was that female, dismissive “men” snort that is recognizable even in the pitch black.
    I was relieved. She was taking it as jealousy.
    â€œThe night’s over, Mr. Cobb,” she said.
    I couldn’t dispute that. But I didn’t move.
    â€œTime for you to go,” she said, though once again the softness of her tone surprised me.
    I rose. I gathered my clothes from the floor, my eyes finally adjusting a little to the dark, with the help of the crack of corridor light beneath the door.
    As I