The Select, Page 3

  I kept my eyes closed. I heard Father moving toward Osman and me. Behind my lids I could sense when he bent over me by the way the darkness got darker, if you know what I mean. A faint whiff of wine made me want to sneeze, but somehow I held still until he turned away.

  He sat down at the table with a deep sigh, and I opened my eyes a crack. He looked very tired and old, sitting there.

  But he nearly leaped off the bed at the sound of a sudden pounding at the door. So did I.

  “Khalid!” a deep voice shouted from outside.

  Father sprang up and hurried to the door. “Who’s there?”

  There was another thunderous blow on the door. The cheap lock tore out of the wood and the door swung inward.

  I slitted my eyes wide enough to see what was happening. A man pushed into the room, shoving Father aside with one hand. The intruder was short and thickly built, with a mustache so big it covered his mouth. There was a knife in his belt, but I got the feeling he could do plenty of damage with his huge fists alone.

  A second figure followed him—a skinny, cringing, weaselly man who could only be Gencer. As I lay there my hands curled into fists. Whatever was going on, Gencer was at the bottom of it.

  “Feyyaz is not happy with you, Khalid,” the man rumbled. “He knows what you did.”

  “What are you talking about?” Father said. “Knows what? Who are you?”

  In a flash, the knife was in the man’s hand. My breath caught.

  “Call me Vasily the Greek,” the man said. “Feyyaz believes you cheated him. Why else would you leave so suddenly? Your children found something in that tomb, didn’t they? Feyyaz isn’t so easily fooled.”

  As Vasily stepped closer, Father backpedaled, his hands in the air. “There wasn’t anything in that tomb!” he pleaded. “I swear!”

  Vasily went on as if Father hadn’t even spoken, backing him up to the wall. “That stunt the girl pulled with the spider? That almost got you all killed right there, you know. You should be on your knees, grateful that Feyyaz is a man of mercy!” In a blindingly swift movement, he grabbed Father by the collar and pulled his face close. “And you know what’s even worse? Feyyaz’s beloved Safi is ruined.”

  “But—nothing happened to Safi!” Father said.

  “She had the finest nose for precious metals of any ferret ever,” Vasily went on. “But now she’s depressed. She’s not eating. She won’t even look at a mousehole. Feyyaz says she is traumatized.”

  “A ferret—traumatized?” Father said.

  Vasily nicked Father’s cheek with the blade. I couldn’t contain a gasp, but the man didn’t care if I was asleep or awake. Father sank to the floor, his hand covering his face. “I—I will make amends!” he cried, as a tiny drop of blood ran down his chin. “I swear!”

  “Yes, you will,” Vasily hissed. “In fact, Feyyaz is thinking twenty thousand will cover it. Barely.”

  “What?” Father blanched. “Twenty thousand lira is a lot of money!”

  The man glared at Father. “Not lira. American dollars, you lowlife thief.”

  Twenty thousand dollars was a sum I couldn’t even imagine! I thought Father was going to have a heart attack. “Gencer . . . ?” he said.

  Gencer, hiding in the shadows, began backing toward the door. “I’ll, um, just be going, then . . .”

  Vasily whirled and pointed the knife at him. “Oh, don’t think you’re off the hook just because you showed me where Khalid lives. You’re the one who got Feyyaz mixed up with this fool in the first place.”

  “Khalid begged me!” Gencer protested. “I tried to tell him Feyyaz was a busy man, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer!”

  “That’s not true!” Father shot back.

  As I lay there, watching, I felt my cheeks become hot. It was all I could do not to leap out of bed and start hitting Gencer with the broom. The spineless worm! The maggot! But to get to Gencer I’d have to deal with Feyyaz’s hit man, and I’m not stupid. All I could do was lie still and try not to shake with rage. All I could think about was how Mother could make Gencer scuttle away like a frightened crab. I just know she would have handled Vasily the Greek, that fat little gangster. But I am not Mother.

  Vasily sighed and slung an arm around Father’s shoulders. “Look. Between you and me, I really don’t want to have to kill you and take your children to work for Feyyaz. It’ll be so much easier if you just get the money.”

  Father nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll find it somehow. Tell Feyyaz not to worry.”

  The man let him go.

  “You have one week,” he said, and he and Gencer were gone.

  Friday, 2:37 A.M.

  I AM SO worried, Diary.

  Gencer returned and woke up Father. They argued a bit, but after a few moments went out together. I called after him. I ran to the door. But he disappeared into the night, assuring me he would be safe.

  Are any of us safe? Will we ever be again?

  Friday, 1:09 P.M.

  HE’S HOME.

  He went right to bed.

  I still smell licorice. I am sick to my stomach.

  Saturday night

  FINALLY A MOMENT of calm, without the earth shaking. Oh, right, I’ll explain.

  Osman and I spent the day yesterday cleaning up. We were too frightened to talk about what had happened. So we tried to joke. And reminisced about our old home, back when Mother was alive. Remember that little apartment with two bedrooms? It was THREE TIMES the size of our hovel now, and also three times as tidy. Oh, Diary, imagine what it would be like if we were still there. Osman and I would share a room, maybe even have bunking beds! We would keep it neat and cozy. We would have a pet dog.

  We were arguing over a name for the dog—I wanted “King,” but Osman insisted on “F’artagnan” (!!!!)—when Father pushed open the door. As it smacked against the wall, the ground shook. Hard.

  Osman and I jumped back.

  “Guess I don’ know my own strength . . . ,” Father grumbled. As he shuffled to the table, a cup began sliding toward him.

  “B-baba?” Osman said.

  Father stared at the cup, afraid to catch it. “Now?” he whispered as the cup slipped off the edge of the table. “Now that stinking ferret decides to perform magic?”

  “It’s not the ferret,” I said. “Safi is not here, Baba. This is something else. This is . . .”

  I didn’t want to say. I wasn’t sure, but I had an idea.

  “Is what?” Osman demanded.

  Cups and plates moving across surfaces, almost as if possessed. The earth, trembling!

  “A foreshock,” I said, showing them both a photo of a flattened city block. “These happen before an earthquake.”

  Father nodded, a smile spreading across his face. When he looked at me, I felt as if the last few years had washed away and he was putting me to sleep, gently. “Of course it is,” he said. “Don’t be frightened. I have felt these. They come and go without harm. Here in Turkey it is extremely rare that the foreshocks precede anything serious.”

  “Is that true, Baba?” Osman asked warily.

  Father crossed his heart. “Or may the Lord turn me into a warty toad before I say the word feezborgen.”

  “Feezborgen!” Osman and I cried at the same time, and we all dissolved into laughter.

  Osman and Father drifted off to sleep almost immediately. And I, dear Diary, am about to follow.

  Tuesday morning

  SORRY FOR TAKING so long to write, Diary. Since Saturday there have been no more tremors, I’m happy to report. Some of Father’s associates have been showing up to the house more and more—the old tomb robbers, Gencer, Ali, Ahmet, and Dodi. They’re small-time crooks, making a living (sort of) by scrounging and selling scrap metal, stolen hubcaps, and the like. They’ve always loved Father’s tales of treasure hunting—they’ve always thought he was some kind of genius. But even with all that activity, it seems that nobody has been able to think of a realistic plan to raise the huge s
um Feyyaz is demanding. Honestly, I don’t know why he thinks these gap-toothed, unwashed men can help.

  It’s not just about the money this time, Diary, is it? Father has three days left to think of a plan to save our lives.

  Tuesday night

  ANOTHER DAY OF Father’s team coming in and out has gone and our home is a complete mess again. I give up. If Father wants to live in squalor, so be it.

  Osman is getting more and more scared every day. He keeps saying, “I don’t want to go work for Feyyaz.”

  Neither do I, Diary!

  Wednesday

  LOTS TO TELL.

  Too much. My heart is racing, Diary. It’s after midnight. Gencer just left. Father fell asleep with his head on the table, so I’ve more or less got the room to myself. Osman slept through much of the action. I can’t wait to tell him in the morning.

  I will go back to this afternoon. Gencer came in, followed by Father’s gang. He had a loaf of bread under his arm and a disturbing smile on his face. Well, to be fair, it’s disturbing any time Gencer smiles. He plopped the bread on the table and helped himself to a cup of coffee.

  “That pot’s been there since this morning,” Father said. “Let Aliyah make a fresh one, Gencer.”

  “You haven’t seen a morning in years, Khalid,” Gencer muttered.

  “Ah,” Father said, looking hard at Gencer, “no matter. You wouldn’t know fresh coffee if it spit in your eye. So, what brings all you gentlemen here? A sudden brilliant plan? Perhaps involving disguises as Arab sheiks—”

  “Hear him, Khalid,” said Ahmet, a fat man with a ring in his ear. “You would do well to listen.”

  “I’m all ears,” Father said dubiously.

  Gencer pulled up a chair and straddled it, leaning forward over the back. “The new museum of underwater archaeology in Bodrum is receiving a load of artifacts in the wee hours Thursday morning. Gold, ancient sculpture, long-lost jewels, treasures from thousands of ancient shipwrecks.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  Gencer scowled at me. “I don’t recall asking the children to join the conversation. This is men’s business.”

  Men’s business! Just like betrayal and drunkenness, I wanted to say, but Father spoke first. “And men who are not used to planning should listen to girls who do it well,” he snapped. “Answer the question. How do you know?”

  “Let’s say I have a friend in the right place.” Gencer paused, staring levelly at Father. “Now, we know Feyyaz is a lover of ancient art and antiques. Even just a few pieces should be enough to get him off all our backs.”

  Father stiffened. “What are you saying, Gencer? That your . . . friend will skim some objects off the shipment for us?” He looked from one man to the next, his eyes wide with disbelief. “With a cutlass and an eye patch, perhaps? You are consorting with pirates now? This seems too good to be true—we do nothing, your friend does all the work. How do we pay this friend? Where do we meet him? How do we get the goods here from Bodrum? How do we know he’s honest?”

  “Oh, he’s certainly not honest,” Gencer said with a leer. “Anyway, when the shipment arrives, there shouldn’t be more than a skeleton crew guarding the museum. My man says security’s not their top priority . . .”

  I’ve never trusted Gencer, but at that moment I thought he’d gone a bit crazy, too.

  “You mean we’re going to intercept the shipment?” I blurted out.

  “Must she interrupt?” Gencer looked annoyed. “Can she not go to her room?”

  “This is my room,” I muttered.

  “Khalid, with the extra money from this haul, you could buy a house in the country for your children,” Gencer said. “Many extra rooms.”

  “What do you say to my daughter’s questions?” Father demanded. “Are you saying we’re going to have to cut off the shipment to the museum and take the artifacts by force?”

  Gencer’s silence was all the answer Father needed.

  “Don’t you realize there’s a reason I rob only old tombs?” Father said. “Do you want me to put my children in direct, mortal danger? We’re not fighters, Gencer. We are tomb robbers, not criminals.”

  “Oh?” Gencer said, staring at Osman and me. “What’s really criminal is how you raise your children, living in filth like this.”

  Dodi gasped.

  Father abruptly stood up from the table. He spoke in a low growl. “You’d better get out of my sight before I—”

  “Before you what? Kill me?” Gencer said. “We are both dead men when Feyyaz is through with us. Think, Khalid. I know you want something better for your family. This haul will make us all rich, even after we pay off Feyyaz.”

  Father held Gencer’s glance, then turned away. “Tombs are a far different beast from museums. How can we be the right bunch for this? None of us are fighters.”

  “I’d become a fighter if there was enough money in it,” Ahmet said.

  “I’d become a fighter for a couple of ounces of gold, at that!” Dodi added.

  As the men grunted in agreement, Gencer stood up, looming over Father. “I’m afraid there’s no choice, Khalid,” he said. “I dearly hope, for the sake of your children, that you’re in.”

  The room fell silent. Everyone looked at Father. I held my breath.

  Father’s shoulders slumped. He looked suddenly small and old.

  “All right,” he murmured.

  “Baba!” Osman and I blurted out.

  The other men cheered and broke out a bottle, but Father was still. As he rose from the table, Osman grabbed his hand. I could see he was thinking fast, feeling protective of Father. “We—we will help you, Baba,” he said.

  Father glowered at him in a way I’d never seen. “You two will have nothing to do with this!”

  Shaking Osman’s hand loose, he went for the door, passing among his thieving, drinking buddies without touching a drop.

  I ran after him, afraid of what I might say, but completely aware of how I felt. He was not going to do this without us. “Baba, this is suicide,” I said, grabbing his hand and spinning him around. “You can’t do this with these men.”

  “Because you don’t trust me?” he said. “I am your father, Aliyah!”

  “They are drunks and thieves—and so are you!” I blurted out.

  As the words left my mouth, I wanted to reel them in, to turn back time. I thought he would hit me or even yell at me. But instead, he nodded. “Yes, Aliyah, you’re right.”

  “And I love you!” I blurted out. “As your oldest child, I demand that you do this with your strongest team, not your weakest.”

  Father looked up toward the shack. Toward the room of half-witted men already bumping chests and shouting unintelligibly. Standing in the doorway was Osman.

  “As your youngest child,” he said, “I’m in, too.”

  Wednesday, 4:53 A.M.

  I GOT ABOUT three hours of sleep, Diary.

  In a few hours we will set out for Bodrum. Father, Osman, Gencer, and I are going early to scout the castle. Gencer’s man told him that security is spotty, because the museum hasn’t even been open for a year. From what I’ve read, it sounds like an incredible collection of objects dredged from the Mediterranean, from ancient shipwrecks and castles that have fallen into the sea. The British Museum and the Turkish government have teamed up to put thousands of these rescued treasures on display.

  What I really want, Diary? To be able to walk among the exhibits like normal people—Father, Osman, and I, spending a day (as paying customers) at the museum. I can just picture Osman, face against the glass like a child, leaping from treasure to treasure.

  Wow, I wrote that without even thinking of adding “Mother.” Maybe my imagination has finally come to terms with the fact that she’s gone.

  We’ll case the museum while it’s still light out. Gencer’s man refuses to meet with us in person—he doesn’t want to get caught if things go wrong. It’s our job to make sure things don’t go wrong.

  I’m wo
rried, though. None of the gang has had much experience with robberies. Robberies of living people, that is. Gencer keeps reminding us that the museum has done all the hard work for us. No diving to the bottom of the sea for us, no dodging spiders or skeleton hands. All we have to do is be at the museum’s back entrance at the right time and take what we need from the truck that will be arriving from the north. Gencer says that the team assigned to protect the truck is usually a group of sleepy archaeologists or just the curator himself with a thermos of coffee.

  Father’s shouting for us from the door. Osman is wearing underwear on his head and dancing around the room, shooting pretend bad guys with his finger. I need to go.

  Thursday evening

  EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED, Diary. I’m actually excited for one of Father’s plans now. Wait. Let me tell you how it all went down. Eep! I can hardly stop myself from skipping to the end.

  Okay. Where did we start? The museum.

  We arrived at the museum at around midnight. Father and Gencer went to the front of the building, while Osman and I scoped out the rear loading entrance.

  We wandered toward the back of the building. I froze. The watchman wasn’t some sleepy archaeologist at all. He had silver hair, but he was a tough-looking man with a big revolver holstered at his side. “Move along, move along! Museum’s got a truck coming soon!” he shouted.

  “I know!” Osman responded.

  I froze.

  “You know?” The watchman cocked his head, his eyes bearing into Osman.

  “Ay . . . no!” Osman stammered. “Ay, no, we won’t leave! No, it’s a free country!”

  I tried to play along, pulling his hand. “Behavior issues,” I said. “Come, Bartu, behave yourself.”

  “Bartu?” Osman said.

  As I yanked him back into the street, the watchman ran toward us, no longer suspicious but fearful, shouting. A loud horn sounded, practically in my ear. We spun around to see a cargo truck bearing down fast.

  Before I could react, I felt Osman pushing me, hard. We both tumbled to the other side of the road as the truck skidded to a stop, hopping the opposite curb.