Too many of the Americans who entered the terminal took the attitude that anybody understood English if you raised your voice enough, and that Turks had about enough brains to be busboys. There were no American bases in Turkey; there were many Turkish installations dedicated to NATO and manned by Americans . . . and if more Americans kept that distinction clear, a demagogue like Ecevit would have found it harder to divert attention from the corruptness of his government with anti-American rhetoric.
“Corporal,” said the officer to one of the men with worn-looking G-3 rifles, “take Colonel O’Neill to the NATO office.”
Kelly gestured the dancer ahead before he himself followed the sturdy-looking noncom through the terminal doors. Neither he nor the Turk had referred to Gisela, who was not specifically covered by the authorization. On the other hand, she was only a woman and as such under the colonel’s control. Much had changed since the Revolution of 1919, but the Turks were still the people who had given the word seraglio to the rest of the world.
What was now the military terminal had presumably been built in past years for civilian uses, long outgrown. It had the feel inside of a train station, with wainscots and plaster moldings, now dingy but painted in complementary pastels. The lobby, at present empty, was equipped with backless wooden benches.
“Are you expecting a flight any time soon?” Kelly asked, mostly to put their guide at ease.
The corporal turned and flashed a smile that was unwilling to become involved, the look of a well-dressed pedestrian faced with a man-in-the-street reporter.
Kelly shrugged.
As he and Gisela followed their guide down a side hallway they saw a portly figure in khakis coming the other way and calling over his shoulder, “Well for Chrissake, Larry, get it off when you can, okay?” The fellow spoke English with a Midwestern twang and wore USAF sleeve insignia – master sergeant’s, Kelly thought, but it was always hard to tell with the multiplicity of winged rockers the Air Force affected to be different.
The Turkish corporal gestured toward the sergeant, said “Sir,” to Kelly, and whisked himself back toward his unit with a slight rattle of his weapon’s internal parts.
“Yes, can I help you, sir?” asked the sergeant as he paused in the doorway of an office which was lighted much better than the hall which served it.
Kelly stepped close to the sergeant to use the light in finding the right document this time. The blue nametape over the man’s breast pocket read Atwater. His moustache was neat and pencil-slim, and despite carrying an extra forty pounds, he had the dignified presence called ‘military bearing’ when coupled with a uniform.
“Yes, sergeant,” said Kelly, handing over a layered plastic card with an inset hologram of the Great Seal and another bad photo of Kelly. “My companion and I need to get to Diyarbakir soonest, and we don’t have time to wait for the Turkey Trot.”
“Ummm,” said Atwater, frowning with concern at the card as he led the others into his office. “That could be a bit of a problem, sir. …”
The phone on his desk began to ring. He lifted the handset and poked the hold button without answering the call. The light began to pulse angrily. “You see,” he continued, “there’s some kinda flap on, and …” His voice trailed off again as he shifted the card between his thumbs and forefingers to move the seal in and out of focus.
Atwater was not giving them a runaround; he was genuinely concentrating as he stared at the card. Kelly, though his face did not change, was chilling down inside, and it was at the last moment before the veteran exploded that Atwater stood up.
“Look,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do. I don’t have any equipment on hand and the Turkey Trot – there’s not another for two days anyway.” He raised his hand. “Besides you don’t want to run that way, I know, sir.”
Kelly nodded guardedly. Every week, a C-130 transport made a circuit of the major US-manned installations in Turkey like an aerial bus route. The delay would be a problem, but the questions and whispers of the military types and their dependents sharing the flight made that option even worse.