Kaufman shook his head. Would they never forget Algeria? Of course, he thought with a sigh, leaning back in the taxi, he himself had yet to forget. Kaufman gritted his teeth and dredged up the memory. It was just over a year ago that the firm told him to get ready to do three months in the London office. He had finished a contract review for an oil company and they liked his work so much that they insisted he handle the contract negotiations for their next deal—extracting natural gas in Algeria.

But then, Kaufman winced, the company’s representative in Algeria was shot dead by Islamic militants the same day that Kaufman arrived in London. The project was over before it even started. Lichtmann & Paneth was very displeased about stopping work on a deal that promised many billable hours. The partner in charge expressed his frustration by blaming the world in general and Kaufman in particular for the rise of religious radicalism.

Kaufman was unceremoniously shoved on the next plane to New York. His biggest project to date had been the contract for a Hungarian company that wanted to build a plant to recycle cow manure in Bulgaria.

To think that thanks to Algeria he had been reading about cow shit for months. He looked out the window at the Bosphorus. This was his chance. It was bound to be simple. A few official meetings, a few fish restaurants, maybe a boat trip on the Bosphorus, a dash through the Grand Bazaar and his work would be done. Markiz International would be happy, Lichtmann & Paneth would be thrilled and maybe, just maybe, everyone would forget that he had been part of the ill-fated Algerian contract.

The driver had turned down the static and raised his voice, breaking into Kaufman’s thoughts.

“We are now in very important place. Sultanahmet. Old home of the Sultans. When Turkey was big, big power. We will be big again, but we have many enemies.” The taxi driver’s voice dropped sadly. “I love America, but why do you help our enemies?”

“Enemies?” Kaufman looked quizzically at the back of the driver’s head. “America is Turkey’s strongest supporter,” he said. “We sell you arms, give you money.”

“Yes, but you also help the terrorists. We know you want to build a Kurdish state in north Iraq.”

Kaufman tried to remember what was happening in north Iraq.

“Why would we want a Kurdish state?” He asked cautiously, not sure that he really wanted to further the discussion.

“To keep Turkey weak. Otherwise, we will be superpower like America and America is afraid of a superpower Turkey. What you think? Is America afraid of Turkey?”

“Well,” Kaufman paused, “I don’t really think so, but of course I’m not in the government.”

“You see.” The driver sounded triumphant, pulling the taxi to a stop near a turn-of-the-century building painted in pale green and cream. “Your government hides the truth because it know it is doing a bad thing.”

The driver turned around in his seat and looked at Kaufman. “You see why it is dangerous to help the Kurds? It doesn’t matter where they are, Turkey, Iraq. You must tell your government to stop helping the terrorists.”

“Of course I will,” said Kaufman distractedly. “Is this the hotel?”

The driver poked his finger over the backseat. “Why do your government and Europe not understand that we are fighting a war?”

“A war?” Kaufman shook his head. He began to despair of ever getting to his hotel. “Look, is this the Pera Palas?”

“Yes, but,” the driver shook his head and reluctantly motioned to a young man in a red cap who had emerged from the building. “You must not let yourself be deceived.”

“I am sure I won’t be,” Kaufman said, pulling out his wallet. “But right now I really have to get to the hotel. How much was it?”
“Thirty-five dollars,” said the driver, his eyes wavering between the wallet and his clear desire to keep talking. “You understand what I am saying?”

Kaufman looked up. “You were saying thirty dollars before.”

The driver shrugged. “Petrol costs very much here.” Kaufman hesitated and then pulled out thirty-five dollars. There seemed little point in arguing when his goal was to be asleep as quickly as possible.

The driver, mollified for the moment, got out of the taxi and unlocked the trunk. He silently watched the porter unload Kaufman’s one bag. “You know,” he said, shaking Kaufman’s hand, “Turkey is a very beautiful country. But I wish when you get home you tell people that it is bad to believe the terrorists, they are trying to divide Turkey.”

As Kaufman walked into the hotel he wondered just what exactly the driver had been talking about. He hoped not everyone in Turkey would insist on giving him a lecture on some detail of Turkish politics. Still, something nagged at him. Nobody had mentioned a war to him. He shook his head and pushed the conversation out of his mind. The man was probably exaggerating. This time, he was certain that nothing could go wrong. He would not let it.

Installments of “A Murder in Ankara” by Lee Sherman are available only on NewsPlink. Click on “Fiction” to see all the episodes.