Hidden Tracks | ✓

11 | a few mistakes ago

We decided to leave for Istanbul the next day.

TIA, as per our request, had already booked a hotel for us, and Miranda called Agent Schiff to get intel on Mehmet Dogan.

"Ja, Hallo Schiff. Hast du der Information?" she asked.

I couldn't hear what Schiff was saying on the other end of the line, but Miranda looked satisfied after the end of the call.

She looked up at us. "Schiff has narrowed our search down to three different men in Istanbul, all by the name of Mehmet Dogan, and all are traders."

Soler nodded. "That makes things easier at least. Three is manageable."

I had to agree with him on that. Looking for three people by the same name wasn't as hard as looking for hundreds at least.

The next day, we arrived in Istanbul and had checked into our hotels by late evening.

The following morning, our search began for Mehmet Dogan. According to Agent Schiff's intel, two of the three traders operated in the famed Grand Bazaar, and the third had his business in another part of Sultanahmet, which was the heart of Istanbul and home to almost all its tourist attractions.

At first, we decided to check out the third trader, who operated outside the Grand Bazaar.

After walking down the ancient streets, with mosques and basilica cisterns on either side, we finally arrived at a small market where this Mehmet Dogan's store was apparently located.

Following Schiff's instructions, we reached a delapidated shop with bright, gaudy fabrics hanging down from the shop window. Mehmet was written in red cursive lettering across the front. I noticed the red paint was chipped in the corners.

This Mehmet's business isn't going very well.

We entered the small shop and looked around us. Different carpets of varying dimensions were displayed, all quite beautiful and intricately woven. I could tell that whoever had made them was insanely gifted at their art.

"Hello?"

An old man walked over to us, wearing a welcoming expression on his bearded face. Was this Mehmet?

I stepped forward. "Mr Mehmet Dogan?"

He looked confused for a second, then nodded, probably puzzled about how I knew his full name.

He nodded at us. "Tourist?"

We nodded back. Miranda spoke up. "Do you speak English?"

The look on his face said it all. He didn't know English. He'd probably exhausted all his vocabulary with Hello and Tourist?

I sighed. I knew a bit of Turkish, but not much. I decided to try as best as I could with whatever little I knew.

"Kimse sikm bilmek Amélie Beaumont?"

Mr Dogan looked absolutely lost. Either he had no idea who Amélie was, or my Turkish was really bad.

By the looks of it, Miranda didn't know the language, so I decided to try again.

"Kimse--"

I felt a warm hand on my arm, stopping me mid-sentence. I looked up to see Soler shaking his head at me, as if I was a lost cause.

"Before you go and butcher their language even further, let me try once."

I glared after him as he stepped forward and started speaking to Mr Dogan.

"Amélie Beaumont diye birini tanıyor musun?"

This time, understanding dawned on the old man's features as he finally got what we were trying to convey. Admittedly, Soler's fluency in Turkish was good. His pronunciation wasn't that great, but it sure as hell was better than mine.

As much as it pained me to say that.

Mr Dogan shook his head no, in response to our question. Soler even showed him a picture of the French designer, but he just looked as confused as he had when I'd tried to interrogate him.

After quite a few minutes of trying, we gave up on him. I was quite good at reading people, and this Dogan didn't seem to lie when he said he didn't know Amélie. In fact he seemed genuinely puzzled, poor soul.

"Come on, let's head to the Grand Bazaar now. We still have two other Mehmet Dogans to search for."

On the way out, I turned to Soler. "Since when did you become an expert in Turkish?"

He rolled his eyes (again) at me. "Since I learnt it for a year at TIA. Just accept I can speak more languages than you."

"Never. How many can you speak anyway?"

"Six fluently, and two not so fluently, but enough to get by."

I smiled to myself, knowing I could speak one more than him. But I decided not to shove that in his face, since it would just be too childish and we had more important things to do.

Soler raised his eyebrows at me, walking with his hands in his pockets. "What, no snarky comment?"

I ignored him and let him laugh, thinking he'd got the better of me. He laughed like a kid. It kind of sounded good though.

Kind of.

After that we made our way to one of the most ancient markets in the world, Istanbul's Grand Bazaar. We were dressed as unassuming tourists, with backpacks, cameras and sunglasses to complete our look.

I'd almost felt like laughing at myself when I'd looked in the mirror in my hotel room. I knew there was a reason I had fun wearing disguises. I always ended up looking completely ridiculous to myself, and completely believable to others.

We entered through the ancient gateway, welcoming us to the Grand Bazaar. Inside, there were uncountable different shops lined on both sides of the narrow street.

Shops with sickly sweet smells of Turkish delights wafting through the air, the sellers inviting you to try a piece for yourself, shops with beautiful carpets on display, shops with royal blue evil-eye keychains and jewellery, some with rip-off clothes and others with brilliant lanterns and painted pottery...you name it, they had it all.

I walked down the narrow street with my two teammates, sometimes pausing to ask some shopkeepers about Mehmet Dogan. They all pointed towards the front, so we kept going.

After rounding three different corners, we finally came across a store named Dogan. The shop mainly sold evil-eye bracelets and necklaces, and overpriced souvenirs for gullible tourists.

The store itself was quite small. It wasn't even housed in a proper shop. It just comprised a stall with all the displays hanging from a board and Dogan spelt out on a banner on top.

We approached the shop owner, who was a middle-aged man, looking to be in his 40s. He was well-built, had a light stubble and obsidian eyes, with typically Turkish features.

At first we sifted through the bracelets, pretending to be interested buyers, but then Soler casually asked the man if his name was Mehmet.

The man frowned at first, then nodded slowly. Soler then proceeded to bring out his phone and show him a picture of Amélie, saying, "Amélie Beaumont diye birini tanıyor musun?"

From where I was standing, I could see the man's face clearly. When he saw the picture on Soler's phone, his entire expression shifted. His narrowed eyes widened, mouth parted ever so slightly and he raised his head to stare at us with an unmistakable look.

Fear.

For a few seconds, everything and everyone seemed frozen in place.

And then, Mehmet Dogan ran.