Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

“We’re planning a cruise up the Nile,” Rand explained in response to Omar Goncah’s question. “Egypt is a good place to spend part of the winter, away from gloomy England.”

The slender man smiled. “I know a better place. Come with me to the camel fights in Turkey.”

“The what?” Leila asked. “Certainly you must be joking.”

“No, no! I am very serious. There is a big one on Sunday in Selçuk, in western Turkey. I fly to Istanbul tomorrow noon. They are like bullfights in Spain, although the camels are rarely injured.”

Rand and Leila thought no more of it at the time, but lying in bed that night she suddenly asked him, “What do you think about going to the camel fights?”

“It’s not what we planned.”

“But isn’t that half the fun of being retired and on holiday? You can do what you want, and so can I!”

“Camel fights in Turkey? Do you really think there are such things?”

“Let’s find out.”

It took them an hour to make the necessary changes in their itinerary, but by midmorning Saturday they had tickets on the noon flight to Istanbul. Their new friend Omar was surprised to see them at the gate but immediately took them in hand, even arranging to sit with them on the two-hour flight. Rand suddenly found himself on a first-name basis with the man.

“Tell me, Jeffrey, what line of work were you in before you retired?” he asked as their plane dipped its wings over the Mediterranean.

“I was a civil servant. It was very dull.”

Omar Goncah shrugged. “Sometimes selling carpets can be dull too.”

“But aren’t they valuable?” Leila asked impishly. “Don’t they all fly?”

“Ah, but if they were flying carpets would I be paying for this airfare, dear lady? In truth, though, I do have a flying carpet. It is in the baggage compartment right now, flying to Istanbul with us.”

“You’re planning to sell it there?” Leila asked.

“No, I will award it as a prize in one of the camel fights. Traditionally, carpets are awarded to the winning owners, but they are usually cheap, machine-made products. This one carries some slight value because of its fine workmanship.”

“An advertisement for your business,” Rand said.

“Of course, of course. I have learned the ways of the world.”

They landed on schedule at Istanbul’s airport, where the air was crisp with a January chill and Omar had arranged for a hired car to take them the rest of the way to the camel fights at Selçuk. “Where is that?” Leila inquired.

“Three hundred and eighty miles south of here. A good driver can make it in five hours, so we should reach the village by sundown.”

“I didn’t realize it would be so far,” Rand’s wife said, and he recognized in her tone the first rumblings of regret that she’d persuaded him to make this trip into the unknown.

The hired car was a German-built limousine with a trunk large enough to hold Omar’s rolled-up carpet. The three of them fit easily into the backseat, leaving the driver alone up front. His name was Aytekin, and he seemed to speak some English, exchanging a few words with Omar before they started out. “I told him to take the shortest route,” their new friend said. “Perhaps upon our return we can go the more leisurely way and stop at the archeological site of Homer’s Troy. They have a huge replica of the famous Trojan Horse at the museum there.”

“I’d like to see Troy,” Leila agreed. “It would be something to tell my next class.”

The drive took them through mountain passes and along wooded hillsides. Occasionally they would come upon another car or even a bus, but for the most part the area between villages seemed all but deserted. “This doesn’t look like camel country,” Rand remarked.

“The best grazing lands are nearer the coast. Many of the people here are nomads who farm mountainside pastures during the growing season. They use camels as beasts of burden, but the fighting camels do no work. And they only fight during the winter months, which is their mating season.”

Suddenly the limousine swerved sharply, bumping across the grassy shoulder. Rand saw at once that the road ahead was blocked by several vehicles, one of them a police car. Omar and the driver were out of the limo at once, with Omar shouting in English at a uniformed officer. “Fool, you need signs or flashing lights! My driver almost ran into you on this curve!”

The officer placed his hands on his wide leather belt and came over to them. “A man has been killed here,” he replied in English, gesturing toward the hulk of a burned-out car. “It was a car bomb with a timer attached. You can pull around us on the grass and get back on the highway.”

“What is this?” Omar asked the driver. “Are there terrorists even here?”

“Everywhere,” came the reply as their driver maneuvered around the obstructions. “Kurds.”

Rand couldn’t help noticing the license plate on the burned-out vehicle. “That’s a diplomatic license.”

Omar nodded agreement. “Driving down to the camel fights is a popular weekend outing for the diplomatic corps. It was probably someone from Ankara or Istanbul.”

“That’s a terrible way to die,” Leila remarked.