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“I’m stunned that you’re still going on the trip, Cress.” She frowns.
Irritation swamps me. “Not you too. As I keep telling Max, we can’t stop our lives because terrorists are everywhere.”
“I agree with general threats.” Her words are slow and barely above a whisper, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. “But these threats are specific to Max.”
I scan her face. She looks back, her eyes shadowed, lids partly lowered.
A chill runs through me. Damn Max. What the hell is he playing at? “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
Metin expels a breath, sounding relieved, as I pick up my coffee and walk out of the living room. No one seems to notice. When I glance back, Max is in deep conversation with Burak. Metin trails behind me. The leather soles of her shoes susurrate as we move from carpet to wood to tile.
My cup and whisky glass clatter against the counter as I turn around, eyes narrowed and hands on hips. “What are you talking about?”
Her voice hardens. “I knew he hadn’t told you, but I think you need to know.”
“He keeps harping on high-level threats in the places we’re going.” I squinch my eyes.
“You know about Istanbul. In 2003?” Metin levels are hard stare at me and I nod. “The terrorist who set up the ambush escaped from prison, and some of the chatter from the NSA sounds like he may want revenge. Two days ago, Max got a suspicious letter that contained white powder. While the powder turned out to be talc, the attached note said ‘Istanbul,’ so the NSA chatter seems to be verified.”
I cross my arms. “Damn him anyway. He promised not to keep secrets.”
Metin’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Spies learn early to keep secrets and letting go of that training is difficult.”
Even though I know this, I’m having trouble accepting it. “ What about you and Burak? Do you still keep secrets?”
“It’s different for us.” Metin pats her French twist. “Burak was Turkish military intelligence, and I was CIA. We knew what we could share and what we couldn’t. And we have the same training. We both understand the rules.” Her smile is smug, and I flinch.
“Max retired from the spy game years ago. I’m not asking him to reveal official secrets. Besides, this development affects both of us.”
“I know.” She holds my hand in hers. “It’s instinctual. He will probably struggle against the impulse forever.”
I don’t want to hear this. My chest feels as if someone plunged a knife into it. I squeeze Metin’s hand so hard she gasps.
Max and Burak walk into the kitchen. I turn away.
Burak calls to Metin, “Time to go, my dear.”
“Yes, I think you should.” My voice is cold and controlled when I call out loudly. “Thanks, everyone, for a wonderful evening and have a safe trip home.”
Max’s expression would strike me as comical, eyebrows raised and lips rounded into an O, if I weren’t so furious.
Then, as he connects the dots, Max’s voice explodes. “Bugger. What the fuck did you say to her, Metin?”
“I told her what you should have already told her.” Her voice is cool and distant.
“Bloody hell. You had no right to do that.” He hits the counter with the flat of his palm.
“You had no right to keep it a secret.”
“Not. Your. Bloody. Decision.”
Glares at fifty paces. I visualize antique pistols at dawn as Burak steps between them, hands held up. “Don’t speak to my wife that way, Max. Friendship only stretches so far.” He puts his arm around his wife and turns her toward the doorway. “Let’s go home, Metin.”
Rooted to the spot, Metin doesn’t budge, and he can’t persuade her to move. “Wait, Burak. I’m not ready to leave.” She folds her arms.
“Please go. Max and I need to have a conversation, in private.”
Max’s jaw goes slack as he rubs a hand through his hair. Then his mouth snaps shut like a rattrap. He swallows. When he finally manages to get any words out, his voice sounds strangled. “Yes. Time for everyone to leave.”
