Free Istanbul Express by T. Davis Bunn Page B

she has to say in writing.”
    But Jake had already made up his mind. “I’ll take my chances, if it’s all right with you.”
    â€œBe my guest. She’s off doing some work for me just now, but she should be back after lunch.” A grand smile creased his features as he turned away. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    ----
    â€œAre you sure this is it?”
    Sally glanced from the note in her hand to the brass plaque set upon the tall entrance gate. “Rosewood Bungalow. See for yourself.”
    Jasmyn peered doubtfully at the great stone edifice rising beyond the formal gardens. “This is a bungalow?”
    â€œSomebody’s idea of a joke, more likely.” Sally started forward. “If it is, she’s in for a nasty surprise. My well of good humor is just about all run dry.”
    The previous day had been spent inspecting the apartments assigned the two couples. Jasmyn had almost wept at the sight of hers; when it came to Sally’s turn, she could not help but laugh.
    Pierre and Jasmyn had been assigned a two-room apartment in a rundown central-city tenement. The French consulate had dumped so much furniture and fittings inside that there was scarcely room for one person to walk about, much less for two people to start a life together. The apartment was on the second floor above a busy street; with the continual din below, they had to shout to hear each other. The single small balcony overlooked a central courtyard of cracked cement and weeds and a dirt-filled fountain. There was no sunlight or sky at all, the view totally blocked by clotheslines strung from higher balconies. Along with the bedlam of crying babies and screaming children and screeching mothers came thecontinual sound of dripping water. The air stank of starch and cheap detergent.
    Sally’s apartment was equally ridiculous, but on the opposite end of the scale. The pre-war building occupied an entire city block. She had opened the door to discover a residence spanning the entire floor. The paltry bits of furniture supplied by the consulate had only amplified the cavernous depths. Their exploration had taken on the air of a trek, calling out to each other to find their way back together, their footsteps echoing loudly from wooden floors and distant ceilings. There were six bathrooms and nine fireplaces. Nine. The kitchen was larger than Jasmyn’s entire apartment.
    Without further ado, they had commandeered two baffled drivers and cars from the French consulate and spent the remainder of the day shifting every stick of furniture from Jasmyn’s apartment to Sally’s. That evening they had pumped each other up, ready to do battle with both men for the right to live together. To their astonishment, neither had offered any argument whatsoever. Jake had seemed relieved. Pierre had said little, but had given the impression that they would probably not be around long enough to need to worry over accommodations. His entire second day had been spent in further explosive encounters.
    Then the note had arrived with Sally’s breakfast tray.
    Sally was growing restless to move out of the hotel and into something more settled. She had no complaints about the hotel itself, other than the feeling that eyes followed her everywhere and privacy had become a relative term. Even room service was losing its appeal. Sally had slipped open the note, read the brief invitation to morning coffee, then gone to fetch Jasmyn.
    ----
    Together they walked up the long winding drive, past ancient rosebushes trained to climb over a variety of surfaces. Rose-covered fountains sprayed musical water. Heavy stone walls were almost lost beneath their burden of bloomingvines. Ancient trees and even older Roman columns were surrounded by trellises, upon which roses had been trained to grow and bloom in profusion.
    â€œOh, how simply marvelous. You must be Mrs. Burnes.”
    Sally stopped, searched, could not