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I reach out and shake his hand. I can see that the last ten years have taken a toll. He’s older, more mature, with evidence of a hard life. Yavuz, at thirty, has the air of being closer to fifty. At twenty, he was skinny. Now he’s bulky with muscle. I notice ink on his wrists. Tattoos are becoming more common in Turkey, although the government frowns on them. No longer a bright, eager fighter for justice, he’s beaten down like a boxer who’s seen better days. He used to be a snappy dresser, but now he’s dressed in jeans, an untucked Oxford shirt, and a worn cardigan that strains against the overdeveloped biceps and quads. I wonder if he works in a gym.
The deep grooves and gray cast to his skin give him the air of a man who has spent time indoors. Prison, maybe? Metin’s sources still haven’t found his missing time, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t spend it inside. Silver threads through his thick black hair. At five-seven, he’s a little shorter than Zehra was. They never looked much alike, but then, not all siblings do.
“Introduce me to your copain, Max.”
“Boyfriend?” Yavuz giggles.
“Une blague.” JL’s riposte is sharp.
“JL, this is Yavuz Arslan. Zehra was his sister.”
JL holds out his hand, face sober. “Sorry, man. ”
“Yavuz, this is my colleague, JL Martin.”
“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance.” Yavuz’s formal greeting is stiff with politesse. I had forgotten he had gone to the lycée in Istanbul. Zehra had gone to a school that specialized in English, one reason Turkish security services attached me to her group even though my Turkish was perfectly serviceable.
“What are you doing in London?” I ask.
“I live here now. My younger brother works at the Turkish Embassy.”
“Tanik? He must be, what, twenty-five, twenty-six now?”
“Twenty-six. Yes. Ten years is a long time. Everything is different now. Emre is studying in Paris, so there is no reason to live in Turkey any more.” He rubs the back of his neck. You live in Chicago these days.”
“Yes. I took a job there a few years ago.”
“You are in London for work?”
“A combination of work and family. I’m traveling around, first to Scotland, then with my partner to Paris for a writing awards dinner. I am her plus one.”
“You’ve done well. Moved on.” Something in his tone is off. Jealousy, maybe, or sadness.
“The reason we’re going to the Lamb &Flag is that Charles Dickens used to drink there,” I explain to JL. “Yavuz is, or at least to be, a big fan of Dickens.”
“Still am. Besides, it’s my local. Very convenient.”
JL looks surprised. Is it because Yavuz likes classic literature or that he lives close to Covent Garden?
“Yavuz had just finished studying literature at Koç University, when he joined the security services on Zehra’s recommendation.”
With a faraway look in his eye, Yavuz says, “Dickens really appealed to me. All that social injustice, the examination of the class system, and the spying, conniving, and mystery. I wrote a senior thesis onBleak Housebecause it embodied so many of those elements. Having a pint at the Lamb & Flag makes me feel as if Dickens might pop in for a chat at any moment.”
By now we’re just outside the pub. JL claims a table while I go up to the bar to get the first round. Yavuz comes with me as if I might disappear if he takes his eyes off me. Once back at the table, we pause any conversation to check out the draught beers on offer. JL and I go for Fuller’s London Pride, while Yavuz picks Sticky Wicket.
“You like pale ale?” JL asks.
“I like the name.” Yavuz gives a small smile, as if savoring a private joke.
I had thought of arranging a car to take Cress to Rules, but now I think I’ll go collect her. I want to make sure she’s all right, and, even though there haven’t been any incidents since we arrived, I don’t want her out on her own.
“Look, chaps,” I say. “I need to get back to the club and pick up Cress for dinner.”
Yavuz looks hurt, as if his best friend just kicked him in the teeth. “I thought we could spend a bit more time together,” he protests.
“We’re going to Rules for dinner. Why don’t you come along?”
He looks down at his totally unsuitable wardrobe. “I’m not dressed for it.” He drums his fingers on the table. “I suppose I could pop home and change.”
