Blowback by Valerie Plame Page A

her hands on it again. She set to work, photographing every detail of the columns of characters.
    Now she turned her attention to the other items on the table—the coins, the wedding ring that she guessed had belonged to Arash.
    Vanessa gestured to the items. “We need to take these . . .”
    â€œI know,” Yassi said.
    â€œI’ll make sure they are returned. I’m so sorry, Yassi.”
    â€œYou were with him when he died?” Yassi said. “Did he suffer?”
    â€œNo.” Vanessa was grateful she could speak the truth. “It happened very quickly.”
    They were both standing now, and Yassi’s eyes filled with a grief that made Vanessa ache. But something else, a sliver of light.
    â€œArash knew about the baby?”
    â€œYes, he knew.”
    Vanessa nodded, and she reached out to squeeze Zari’s tiny hand. It felt as delicate as a bird. “I promise, when I have news, I will get word to you . . .”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Five hours later, at AnkaraAirport, Vanessa boarded a Lufthansa flight headed to Cyprus. With luck, Yassi and Zari would have a few days to rest before they boarded a military transport that would take them to Frankfurt. They might spend weeks in Germany before they moved on to the United States and a new life. It was only the beginning of a journey that would demand incredible strength and resilience, especially with a new baby. She hoped they would find a way to begin again.

The moon illuminated the midnight ferry sliding out of’s harbor, sailing south across the Mediterranean to the island of Cyprus.
    Pauk sat alert behind the wheel of the beige Fiat 500. He fingered the ferry receipt—an open return for a standard car and driver. He’d almost been delayed a day inby reports of a Turkish strike, then of a Greek strike—typical local bickering—but finally the long lines of vehicles were allowed to board the massive ferry. He should arrive in Kyrenia on Northern Cyprus before dawn, an unremarkable journey undertaken by a seemingly unremarkable man.
    With the windows cracked, he caught the bite of gasoline from the trucks and buses along with the smoky scent of meze from the vendors. A jet rumbled overhead. Music and voices speaking mostly in Turkish drifted from the rows of cars around him. A baby’s cry pierced the early morning, followed by a man’s deep voice raised in quiet song and a woman’s laughter shivering abruptly through darkness.
    These sounds of life meant nothing to Pauk.
    Two children ducked between the cars in front of him. A boy and girl, hide-and-seek. The girl hesitated for a moment to stare in the direction of the Fiat. Out of habit, Pauk slowed his breathing as he retreated internally, a way of “disappearing” that seemed to translate externally so that others paid him no attention.
    When the boy called out, his voice teasing, the girl pivoted, darting after him.
    Abruptly, the urge to escape the car’s containment filled Pauk with restlessness.
    But he had trained himself long ago to deal with silence and immobility. So now he tucked the brim of his soft hat lower on his forehead, covering eyes that remained open but sightless. He stared into darkness and settled into the semiconscious state he knew as sleep. He could gauge the passage of time with surprising accuracy, and the occasionally rough waves of the Mediterranean seemed to find their own rhythm. He could let his mind embrace the blackness—he had already prepared for the business he would attend to on Cyprus.

Vanessa let herself in through the wrought-iron gate to her landlady’s garden in Nicosia, where the air held the bittersweet scent of lemons. The widow always clucked over her tenant,
koukla mou,
my sweet little doll. In turn, Vanessa willingly called her landlady
yia yia
, grandmother. A night bird fluttered from
yia yia
’s fig tree as Vanessa strode