“Farhad was eager to get rid of me. He’d concluded my father must be a foreign spy—a fantôme maybe—or even CIA; he worried a military team might come for me and they’d all be killed. I hoped he was right.
“Later, Bekami returned, desperate this time. Your father is Kent Hepworth, isn’t he?! he shouted in English, shoving a photograph of my father in front of my face. I shook my head, denying it in French, I don’t know that man!
“Farhad was belligerent; he didn’t want me in the apartment when he could ransom me for ten thousand euros. We need the money, he’d plead. Bekami kept explaining I was worth much more than ten thousand euros.
“Farhad wanted to torture me until I gave Bekami answers, but Bekami refused. So Farhad pulled out a rusty knife and put it next to my throat. I’ll never forget the sound of his voice, like coarse salt on a shiny stone: Tell us who your father is or I send him your head. I spat in his face. So, Farhad sliced my neck.”
I touch the scar directly beneath my chin.
“A car accident?” Aksel remarks in a low voice.
I grip the chocolate chiffon gown drowning my legs and take a deep breath.
“Farhad had loosened his grip on the knife, so I grabbed it; he lunged for me and I swung the knife, cutting him from his forehead to the bottom of his cheek.
“I ran past Bekami and the others, through a kitchen and into a hall. I ran down the nearest staircase, circling until I reached a pair of turquoise doors on the ground floor.
“Outside, the sun hit me in a blinding flash of light. My head pounded in the bright sunshine. Blood trickled down my neck and onto my clothes. My legs were weak. I wanted to stop. To collapse. But I ran.
“A scooter revved up behind me—Bekami. But I was more agile on foot. I darted into one alley, then skidded into another, narrower alley. Behind me, Bekami couldn’t turn the scooter fast enough; he had to loop one hundred and eighty degrees before turning after me.
“The alley intersected a souk. I entered it through a spice stall. Inside I stole a scarf from a vendor and wrapped it around my head to cover my hair. My navy school blazer was soaked in my blood, so I slipped it off and grabbed another scarf, covering my shoulders and holding the ends together in my fists.
“Bekami drove up behind me, plowing people aside on his scooter. My only choice was to run faster. I emerged from the souk on a café-lined street; I saw the dry cleaners that serviced my uniform. I knew where I was—five hundred meters from a diplomatic mission.
“Although the embassies are in Ankara, hundreds of kilometers away, the consulates are in Istanbul. And many of these are even bigger, and more heavily guarded. The Slovak Consulate was closest. I knew this because my father’s friend Jozef worked there. Only a month before, we’d met him nearby for lunch …
“People at the cafés stared as I ran past. I was wearing my oxford school shoes; my shirt and skirt were ripped and filthy; my matted hair flew like a dirty broom behind me. I was fast. But Bekami was faster.
“Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him drop the scooter and sprint after me. He shoved an old woman to the pavement; her groceries rolled into the gutter.
“I reached Sultana Park, situated between me and the consulate. It’s small—surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, with openings on each corner. I had already passed the southeast corner, so I jumped onto a bench and hurdled the railing. I cut through the wooded park and exited at the northwest entrance. Bekami chased me like an attacking dog. I could hear him panting.
“I ran along the building’s east gate, knowing the guards wouldn’t be able to see me until I was practically in front of them. Bekami was closing in on me, his footsteps like a dark rhythmic drumbeat welcoming me to hell.
“Rounding the corner, I screamed I was a citizen—Som Slovák! Open the gate! I’m being attacked! I cried. I shed my scarves as I reached the boxwood hedge.
“No alarm sounded. I couldn’t tell if the soldiers heard me. I was about to run headfirst into a wall of iron posts … Two meters away they glanced at each other … as if they weren’t sure whether to believe