Post by akunzepp on Mar 7, 2010 15:39:26 GMT -5
David had spent hours out on the bars, smoking with officers, dropping his card. He decided to use Maria's apartment as a base. But the way the Feddies were talking, you'd think the war was over.
The questioning was relentless. Who are you? Why should I care? How do I know I can trust you? Why are you snooping around? He'd be contracted, follow up, and the deals would be dead in the water. It had certainly been a long, long day. By now, every soldier in Constantinople would know David was looking for work.
He would hate to come back empty handed. Maria's patience was thin. The apartment complex was pock marked. The stairs were blown away. The only way to get up or down was the elevator. Somehow, the elevator man still managed to greet him with a smile and a friendly demeanor. The door man had been shot by looters. The elevator was slow, loud, and malfunctioning. By the time he got to Maria's floor, ten minutes had passed.
He knocked three times. A man opened the door.
"Good evening, Mr. Mass."
The guerrillas had arrived en masse. They were strewn around the apartment, drinking, telling stories, weeping over the death of Aptal. He was buried in a small cemetery behind the complex, next to the doorman. Aptal's men, now unemployed, were lost and confused.
Maria approached him, holding drinks for the men, handing one to David. It was a Turkish alcohol. David wouldn't question a free lunch.
"You got a letter."
It was heavy, marked with an X. Inside, 45 priceless Spanish dubloons and two words. "New York."
The questioning was relentless. Who are you? Why should I care? How do I know I can trust you? Why are you snooping around? He'd be contracted, follow up, and the deals would be dead in the water. It had certainly been a long, long day. By now, every soldier in Constantinople would know David was looking for work.
He would hate to come back empty handed. Maria's patience was thin. The apartment complex was pock marked. The stairs were blown away. The only way to get up or down was the elevator. Somehow, the elevator man still managed to greet him with a smile and a friendly demeanor. The door man had been shot by looters. The elevator was slow, loud, and malfunctioning. By the time he got to Maria's floor, ten minutes had passed.
He knocked three times. A man opened the door.
"Good evening, Mr. Mass."
The guerrillas had arrived en masse. They were strewn around the apartment, drinking, telling stories, weeping over the death of Aptal. He was buried in a small cemetery behind the complex, next to the doorman. Aptal's men, now unemployed, were lost and confused.
Maria approached him, holding drinks for the men, handing one to David. It was a Turkish alcohol. David wouldn't question a free lunch.
"You got a letter."
It was heavy, marked with an X. Inside, 45 priceless Spanish dubloons and two words. "New York."