The Persian in the Window

Istanbul, now.

The phone still hums from that last text — You trust the wrong one.

Karim is scanning the street; Asdar is studying me, every muscle reading the wind.

And then, in the café window opposite, the curtain twitches back just enough for me to see her face.

Mitra Akhtar.

Perfect black hair, oval face, the colour of molasses in warm light, and eyes that could disguise a decision to poison you as a compliment.

I know her from London — a hazy winter, the smell of cedarwood steam and strong mint tea — the Sauna Social Club in Peckham.

The memory drops in without asking.

London, Months Before

Peckham was all fog and slick pavement as I stepped into the Sauna Social Club—chrome pipes, eucalyptus haze, and the kind of gossip you only catch in steam. These arches don’t just shelter bodies—they host deals, secrets, alliances sweat into being. I remember having shared bench.

That day, Mitra sat regal and unmoved on the far bench. Even half-naked, she gave off queen energy: posture straight, gaze direct, radiating a courtyard confidence that made everyone else fidget.

Then the door slammed open.

Roger Boswell arrived: part gangster legend, part traveller, always rumoured to be behind half the “protection” jobs the Bow Street boys couldn’t nail down.

Pikey royalty, all grin and arrogance.

He never bothered with subtlety.

He reaches the doorway and stops.

Heat against his chest. The air thick with steam and other bodies. Stares. No word.

Conversation falters. Someone’s gaze drops to the floorboards. Wood creaks—benches shifting, water tapping from elbows and knees.

They rise. Heads bowed, towels clutched, skin flushed. No one looks at him as they file past, steam trailing into cooler air.

Until Mitra is the only one left.

She hasn’t moved.

He fills the doorway, silent. Now the stare belongs entirely to her.

“Huh. More perceptive than dumb. That’s a first..”
His voice cut through silence.

Roger dropped beside her with the authority of a man who doesn’t fear getting burned.

“Do I need introduction?”

She met his eyes, unimpressed. “No.”

“Good.” He leaned in, elbows on knees, water pooling at his feet. “The Dutch professor—blonde. You know?”

Mitra didn’t blink. Years of practice in not giving it away. “I do.”

“Keep an eye on her for me,” he said. “Everything’s on my tab. I’ll keep your boys slate clean—understand?”

She replied only with a slow blink, a feline acceptance that made both promise and threat. She knew not to ask what kind of “eye” he wanted kept. Better for all parties that she didn’t.

Roger left. The sauna stayed empty for another half hour—regulars too jumpy to return and Mitra lounging, as if she’d conjured the cleared space herself.

Istanbul, now

And so here she is, framed by lace curtain and the blue-gold sunlight knifing across Istiklal.

Mitra Akhtar: Persian Londoner, now Istanbul shadow—has always been just beyond reach, fixer, observer, waiting for the right beat.

I remember her presence through the steam in Peckham, how she gave her silent acknowledgment of my person.

She’s heard us mention Ekrem.
And if she’s been riding the wind this long, she’s heard everything else, too.

The curtain slips back into place.
My phone still burns in my palm:
You trust the wrong one.

I.Ph.