“King’s College, Cambridge,” he said smoothly, upon learning that Leila lectured in archaeology at the University of Reading. “I regret not returning to your country more frequently, but my affairs keep me in the Middle East.” They’d met at a dinner party in Alexandria, arranged by Leila’s cousin on the eve of their departure from the city.
“We’re planning a cruise up the Nile,” Rand explained in response to Omar Goncah’s question. “Egypt is a good place to spend part of the winter, away from gloomy England.”
The slender man smiled. “I know a better place. Come with me to the camel fights in Turkey.”
“The what?” Leila asked. “Certainly you must be joking.”
“No, no! I am very serious. There is a big one on Sunday in Selçuk, in western Turkey. I fly to Istanbul tomorrow noon. They are like bullfights in Spain, although the camels are rarely injured.”
Rand and Leila thought no more of it at the time, but lying in bed that night she suddenly asked him, “What do you think about going to the camel fights?”
“It’s not what we planned.”
“But isn’t that half the fun of being retired and on holiday? You can do what you want, and so can I!”
“Camel fights in Turkey? Do you really think there are such things?”
“Let’s find out.”
It took them an hour to make the necessary changes in their itinerary, but by midmorning Saturday they had tickets on the noon flight to Istanbul. Their new friend Omar was surprised to see them at the gate but immediately took them in hand, even arranging to sit with them on the two-hour flight. Rand suddenly found himself on a first-name basis with the man.
“Tell me, Jeffrey, what line of work were you in before you retired?” he asked as their plane dipped its wings over the Mediterranean.
“I was a civil servant. It was very dull.”
Omar Goncah shrugged. “Sometimes selling carpets can be dull too.”
“But aren’t they valuable?” Leila asked impishly. “Don’t they all fly?”
“Ah, but if they were flying carpets would I be paying for this airfare, dear lady? In truth, though, I do have a flying carpet. It is in the baggage compartment right now, flying to Istanbul with us.”
“You’re planning to sell it there?” Leila asked.
“No, I will award it as a prize in one of the camel fights. Traditionally, carpets are awarded to the winning owners, but they are usually cheap, machine-made products. This one carries some slight value because of its fine workmanship.”
“An advertisement for your business,” Rand said.
“Of course, of course. I have learned the ways of the world.”
They landed on schedule at Istanbul’s airport, where the air was crisp with a January chill and Omar had arranged for a hired car to take them the rest of the way to the camel fights at Selçuk. “Where is that?” Leila inquired.
“Three hundred and eighty miles south of here. A good driver can make it in five hours, so we should reach the village by sundown.”
“I didn’t realize it would be so far,” Rand’s wife said, and he recognized in her tone the first rumblings of regret that she’d persuaded him to make this trip into the unknown.
The hired car was a German-built limousine with a trunk large enough to hold Omar’s rolled-up carpet. The three of them fit easily into the backseat, leaving the driver alone up front. His name was Aytekin, and he seemed to speak some English, exchanging a few words with Omar before they started out. “I told him to take the shortest route,” their new friend said. “Perhaps upon our return we can go the more leisurely way and stop at the archeological site of Homer’s Troy. They have a huge replica of the famous Trojan Horse at the museum there.”
“I’d like to see Troy,” Leila agreed. “It would be something to tell my next class.”
The drive took them through mountain passes and along wooded hillsides. Occasionally they would come upon another car or even a bus, but for the most part the area between villages seemed all but deserted. “This doesn’t look like camel country,” Rand remarked.
“The best grazing lands are nearer the coast. Many of the people here are nomads who farm mountainside pastures during the growing season. They use camels as beasts of burden, but the fighting camels do no work. And they only fight during the winter months, which is their mating season.”
Suddenly the limousine swerved sharply, bumping across the grassy shoulder. Rand saw at once that the road ahead was blocked by several vehicles, one of them a police car. Omar and the driver were out of the limo at once, with Omar shouting in English at a uniformed officer. “Fool, you need signs or flashing lights! My driver almost ran into you on this curve!”
The officer placed his hands on his wide leather belt and came over to them. “A man has been killed here,” he replied in English, gesturing toward the hulk of a burned-out car. “It was a car bomb with a timer attached. You can pull around us on the grass and get back on the highway.”
“What is this?” Omar asked the driver. “Are there terrorists even here?”
“Everywhere,” came the reply as their driver maneuvered around the obstructions. “Kurds.”
Rand couldn’t help noticing the license plate on the burned-out vehicle. “That’s a diplomatic license.”
Omar nodded agreement. “Driving down to the camel fights is a popular weekend outing for the diplomatic corps. It was probably someone from Ankara or Istanbul.”
“That’s a terrible way to die,” Leila remarked.
“The Kurds are a problem here?” Rand asked.
“Not usually in this area, but if the bomb was planted hours ago, it was probably done at an embassy or consulate.”
They drove along the winding road in silence for a time, until they reached a crossroads and overtook a battered truck carrying a camel in the back. Two ropes around its neck secured the large beast, looking so incongruous in the truck. There was a muzzle over its mouth. “A fighting camel,” Omar Goncah observed, “on its way to Selçuk, no doubt. They are muzzled so they can’t bite each other.”
“The poor things,” Leila said. “I detest all staged fighting between animals.”
“They are hardly ever injured,” Goncah assured her as they passed the truck. “They crash into each other with much pushing and shoving. When one is pushed to the ground or runs away, the other is the winner of the match. That driver is Jobar, one of the best trainers of fighting camels.”
“I suppose there is betting on the outcome,” Rand said.
“Of course, but these people are not wealthy. It is merely a winter diversion for them.”
After another hour’s drive they came to the village of Selçuk, a small outpost of the country’s Asian heritage, close to the Aegean Sea. Omar had arranged for rooms at a small inn. It was a two-story house with many windows, built of wood on a stone ground floor. An outside stairway led from a courtyard to the second-floor rooms.
They were greeted by the innkeeper, a black-bearded man named Sevret who wore a traditional red fez. Rand realized it was the first one he’d seen since their arrival in the country. At one time it had been the country’s national headdress. “Greetings,” the bearded man said, bowing slightly to Omar Goncah and then shaking his hand. “I have two rooms at the top of the stairs. Your party is here for tomorrow’s camel fights?”
“That’s correct,” Omar responded. He glanced around. “Are we the only guests?”
“Most people come by car or bus, just for the day. But I am expecting another, a man from the Greek consulate in Istanbul.”
Rand and Omar exchanged glances. “We passed a fatal accident on the highway about an hour north of here,” Omar told him. “The car had diplomatic license plates.”
“Ah! I pray it was not Mr. Berk.” He emphasized the words by placing his palms together in prayer. “But you have arrived in time for dinner, and I invite you to join my wife and me on the first floor when you have had time to freshen up.”