Alitalia Flight 171
Between Rome and Atlanta
Four Hours Later
Lang luxuriated in the first-class seat as he accepted his second glass of champagne. Well, Spumante, a discrepancy more than compensated for by being able to actually extend his legs while he enjoyed it. The past few days hadn't exactly been the rehab his surgeon had recommended. Wriggling his toes in the thick airline-issue socks, he gazed down on the rugged Alpine region below, replaying his last hours in Rome.
After a hasty exit from Father Strentenoplis's apartment building and shedding priestly garb, he had headed back toward the Vatican, stopping only long enough to dump the.45 from the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele into the sluggish green Tiber.
He had not even considered returning to Viktor's to collect his passport. It was too likely the men he had encountered in the ghetto yesterday had observed him coming in or out of the building. That they knew about the priest only strengthened this supposition. He would need to find translation of the gospel elsewhere, preferably somewhere someone wasn't trying to kill him.
He had used his BlackBerry as he walked to call up Delta's stored number. With surprising accommodation, they booked him on that afternoon's flight on Alitalia.
He had no sooner disconnected than the device buzzed, this time showing his office number.
"Sara?"
"It's me, Lang. You all right?"
Just swell, Sara. Twice in as many days, somebody has tried to kill me. I've been forced to seriously burn one man, maybe crack the skull of another and shoot one more to death. I'm not forgetting being responsible for yet one more getting his throat slit and the disappearance of a priest. I'm a one-man plague, but I'm just peachy keen. "What's up?"
"I thought you'd like to know, a Larry Henderson called last night. Says he knows you. He's in the federal pretrial detention center in Macon on what I gather are a number of charges related to growing marijuana. He's got an arraignment in front of a magistrate coming up."
Larry Henderson.
The name was familiar but just out of his memory's reach. Lang was puzzled for other reasons, too.
"I'm still on medical leave of absence from the various courts, I don't practice outside the Atlanta area and I sure as hell don't defend dope dealers. None of this is news. What's special about this guy?"
"He said to remind you of your home in Lamar County."
It all came back to Lang like a yo-yo on a string. Shit! A real pain in the ass when you owe someone, really owe them, and they come around to collect. Especially when your own plate is full of assassins who want you dead.
On the other hand…
"Have someone tell Mr. Henderson I'll drive down to Macon tomorrow. Call and make arrangements with the Fed Bureau of Prisons people."
Lang terminated the call and made another, this one to Gurt.
"There's been a change of plans," he told her.
When he got back to the Vatican to throw his few clothes into his single bag, Francis was waiting for him. The priest was sitting on one of the twin beds, fingering the rosary in his lap.
"Lang, what have you gotten into?" were the first words he said.
"You already know as much as I do," Lang replied, crossing to the small closet and taking out a pair of slacks. "What brings this up?"
Francis hesitated before answering as though carefully constructing an answer. "That Greek Orthodox priest you asked to translate for you, the one visiting from Istanbul…"
"Strentenoplis."
"Father Strentenoplis. He was found an hour ago."
Lang felt as though he had tried to swallow something without chewing, something very large. "Found?"
"In the Tiber."
"He fell into the river?"
Lang knew better.
"Not unless he was carrying the hundred-pound anchor tied to his legs."
"Who…? I mean, you can't just throw somebody tied to an anchor into a river in broad daylight without a couple hundred witnesses. Somebody must have seen it."
Francis arched an eyebrow. "And what makes you think it was done in daylight?"
A warm coffeepot, a clerical collar with studs on a dresser, a breakfast not eaten.
But Lang said, "Lucky guess?"
Francis shook his head. "A dozen or so people called the police. Of course, each had a different idea of the make of the truck they used, its color, even how many people were involved."
"And, of course, nobody got a tag number."
"Oh, they did, all right. According to Vatican security, the Rome police found the truck abandoned. It had been stolen." He stood, staring at Lang intensely. "Lang, you're not telling me something."
Lang laid his suitcase out on the other bed and began transferring shirts and underwear into it from the bureau. He was acutely aware someone in addition to Francis was probably listening. "More than one something, Francis. Unless you want to end up like Father Strentenoplis, I'm doing you a favor." He stopped in midpacking. "The anchor, it's the symbol for…?"
"St. Clement. He was tossed overboard at sea tied to an anchor."
Lang zipped his bag shut. "Crude but efficient. Even considering the Tiber is, what, ten feet deep? I'll see you when you get back."
"You're going back to Atlanta?"
A fact the eavesdroppers either knew or would soon.
"It's a starting place."
Francis stood. "Lang, please. Drop this search for a translation of that gospel. It's not worth your life. Give it to whoever wants it. No more killing, no more…"
Lang gave his friend a bear hug. "Always the man of peace, Francis. Problem is, I wouldn't know who to give it to or that they'd call off the dogs if I did."
Lang's thoughts were interrupted by the flight attendant extending a pair of tongs holding a hot towel. He mopped his face and dropped the towel onto the seat divider to be collected by the same set of tongs.
One of his problems was he had no real clues as to who it was that wanted him to drop the matter of the Gospel of James. The obvious answer was some fanatical religious splinter group of Catholics. Problem was, which one? He couldn't name them all. He could eliminate the Pegasus organization as having too much to lose in the event of his violent death. Besides, Pegasus's killers were professionals. The men who had made attempts on his life, at least in Rome and Prague, hadn't been, a fact for which he was extremely grateful. There was no way to tell whether the bombing of his condo had been the work of a true pro or some Timothy McVeigh wannabe. Ever since the tragedy in Oklahoma City, anyone could mix up an explosive mixture of sulphur nitrate from recipes on the Internet. And this particular bomber hadn't had to. Natural gas had worked just fine.
A comforting thought.
He had no clue, nothing other than the untranslated gospel and the hope it would help identify those who were more willing to kill him than have it see daylight.
He pushed his seat back to a near-reclining position, punched a series of buttons on the in-flight entertainment system and began watching some mindless comedy.
Macon
Bibb County, Georgia The Next Day
Larry Henderson had thought he might be in trouble when Jerranto found the man on Larry's property. Clearly from the city, the trespasser was all dressed up in blue jeans newer than Larry'd seen in a long time. Shiny new boots, too. Had a pair of binoculars around his neck, a camera with a long lense and a book with pictures of birds in it. He said he was a bird-watcher, come down to the crick because he heard some kind of woodpecker was there.
What man would tromp around with rattlers and cottonmouths just to see a woodpecker? Hadn't made sense then.
But it made a lot of sense now, to Larry's misfortune.
Particularly as the man was close to two things Larry'd just as soon keep folks away from: the current crop of marijuana and a couple shallow graves containing the men who had shot up the house belonging to that Atlanta lawyer.
After he thought about it, Larry decided the man's story smelled like a mess of catfish that had been out of the water too long.
And he was right.
Two days later, the federals were swarming all over the place like fire ants when somebody's kicked over their hill. It took them less than a minute to find the crop, as if they knew where to look.
Now Larry was in deep shit.
More specifically, he was in the federal pretrial detention center in Macon.
Good thing that Atlanta lawyer, Lang Reilly, told him he'd be happy to return the favor if Larry ever needed it. Just out of curiosity, Larry had Googled him one night when there was nothing on TV. Reilly had five or six pages on him.
Reilly had defended the previous mayor of Atlanta against all kinds of corruption charges and got him off with a couple years for tax evasion. He'd also pissed somebody off big-time, had his house blown up, in addition to the men who shot up his place.
Whoever was mad enough at Reilly to want him dead wasn't any of Larry's business. He'd done Reilly a huge favor and now he was asking to be paid back.
Larry was just sitting down to his prison lunch of peanut butter sandwich, french fries and strawberry Jell-O when two of the guards came over to his table in the mess hall.
The man had to holler to be heard above the noise of a couple hundred men all talking at once. "You got a visitor, Henderson."
Although he knew it was routine, Larry's face burned with embarrassment when one of the guards snapped on leg shackles while the other watched. None of the other prisoners seemed to notice anything but the food left on Larry's plate.
Larry shoveled as much of the sandwich as he could into his mouth and followed the lead guard, the other one behind him. His fellow inmates were welcome to the Jell-O, but he hated leaving the fries even if it was the fifth time in as many days they had been featured on the noon menu.
They went down on an elevator and through a series of doors that hissed shut before the next one opened; then he was led into an eight-by-eight room divided by a metal table at which were two chairs. In one of them was the lawyer Reilly.
Lang stood and extended a hand as the guards removed the shackles and withdrew. Larry's bright orange jumpsuit was less than becoming.
"'Lo, Larry. How goes it?"
Larry looked around the room. "Stone walls a prison do not make, but this sucks."
Richard Lovelace? The value of a liberal arts education: recognizing cavalier poets.
Dumb question, anyway. Lang started over. "Looks like I'm going to have the chance to repay the favor."
" 'Preciate anythin' you can do." Larry sat in unison with Lang. "Guess you know the federals impounded all the cash I had. All the cash Momma and I had," he added bitterly. "I ain't astin' for charity, but…"
Lang waved his hand. "You're not getting charity. You're allowing me to repay a debt, a very big debt I owe you on my behalf as well as my family's."
Larry felt better already. The Hendersons had never been rich, but they'd never been beggars. This lawyer might be from Atlanta, a place so evil they let women dance naked in bars, or so Larry heard, but Reilly talked like he had the same principles as people in Lamar County.
Lang slipped papers out of a briefcase and handed them across the table. "Here's a copy of the indictment. Basically, you're accused of growing marijuana for purposes of distribution. That encompasses several other crimes such as transporting for sale, sale, etcetera."
Larry's heart sank as though suddenly cast in lead. "I done it. I'm guilty. How long'll I be in jail?"
Lang shook his head with just a trace of a smile. "You may or may not have done it, but you aren't guilty till a jury says you are. Tell me exactly what happened."
And Larry did just that. Starting with the bird-watcher whom he vaguely connected with his problems, he finished with the raid on his home.
"Can you tell me the exact date you found this person on your property?"
Larry scratched his jaw, thinking. "Was a Tuesday, 'cause Momma has her hair done ever Tuesday. An' it was a Tuesday, las' Tuesday, I was arrested."
Lang glanced at the papers from his briefcase. "And the indictment was handed down thirteen days after you saw the bird-watcher."
"You reckon he had any thin' to do with it?"
"I reckon he had everything to do with it."
"Shoulda shot him when I had the chance."
If past experience was any indication, he wasn't kidding.
Lang put his elbows on the table, making a steeple of his fingers, "If you'd shot him, you would have been in a lot more trouble than you are now."
"It's for sure he would be. Look, how long will I have to spend here?"
Lang puffed and blew out his cheeks. "Frankly, I have no way to know. If you're found guilty, or decide to cooperate…"
"Cooperate?"
"I'm sure the DEA boys would be delighted to know to whom you sold, stuff like that…"
Larry shook his head. The Hendersons weren't tattlers, either. "Not gonna happen."
Lang stood, snapping his briefcase shut with finality. "That is, of course, up to you. But in any scenario, we are a long way from talking prison time, a very long way."
"But if I done it…?"
Lang leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "The government is a long way from even getting to whether or not you did what they say. A bit of advice: drop 'I done it' from your vocabulary. Second, remember, there are men in here who will swear you said just about anything so they can trade for a lighter sentence."
Larry watched the guards unlock the door and Lang start to leave. Slightly skeptical men would actually bear false witness against each other for their own benefit. There must be some very bad people in here.
"Lang…"
He turned back from the door, a question on his face.
"If you can, meybbe when you come down this way to be in court, if it ain't too much trouble…"
Lang grinned. "C'mon, Larry. Spit it out."
"Momma. It's jus' she ain' never been alone an'…"
Lang chuckled. "I think I can assure you she won't be now. Even as we speak, Gurt is at your house making arrangements to move into your son's old room until all this is over."
Lang had never seen a man in a prison jumpsuit happier.
Lamar County, Georgia
7:28 p.m.
That Evening
Lang needed to take a walk. He'd eaten a great deal more than he had intended. Starting with a tomato aspic salad, he had been served with a panoply of fresh vegetables "from the garden," homemade corn bread, ham with redeye gravy and peach cobbler for dessert. Feeling slightly guilty, he had left Gurt and Darleen to do the dishes at the latter's insistence despite the glare he got from the former. Manfred, in a blatant effort to postpone bedtime, had wanted to come along, which meant Grumps, recently liberated from the boarding kennel, had included himself.
The stroll, though pleasant, had a purpose other than a futile effort to settle the results of gluttony in his stomach. Lang headed slowly but purposefully along the dirt drive leading to the highway. He took his time. He stopped to watch Manfred chase the few early fireflies that ventured out into the fading light and Grumps's futile attempt to extract some small animal from its lair, a hole the dog was rapidly expanding. When he could see the state road, he stopped. He was not surprised a Ford sedan in plain wrapper was parked on the shoulder. In most federal dope busts, the DEA would keep a constant watch on the premises in hopes of snaring others who might be involved.
At least that was the reason usually given.
Lang suspected a more sinister motive might be to prevent intentional damage to property that the federal government would surely seize as contraband once Larry was convicted.
Either way, the inexhaustible assets of US law enforcement would be guarding Gurt and Manfred even if that was not the intent. They would also be protecting the very lawyer who already had a plan to defeat them in court.
He grinned. Is this a great justice system or what?
Although he couldn't see them, he would bet several other agents were serving as dinner for gnats and mosquitoes in the surrounding woods where they could survey the house from different perspectives.
He turned, took Manfred by the hand and started back. The fact the feds would predictably keep Larry's farm under surveillance, at least for a while, was the reason he had asked Gurt to propose staying there to Darleen. That and the hope the people who wanted him dead wouldn't guess he would return to the place they had nearly killed him earlier.
Or, at least, it would take time before they did.
He had picked up a two-man tail upon his arrival at the Atlanta airport. He had made no effort to keep them from hearing the directions he gave the cabbie before climbing into the backseat.
The cab got lost twice largely due to the driver's unfamiliarity with the city's streets and inability to understand Lang's directions. He could only imagine the growing frustration of his minders as the hack turned and doubled back several times in what must have seemed a random pattern.
He had been grateful when the taxi had made it to Francis's church downtown. The following Chevy parked across the street before Lang could get out.
After paying the fare, he had entered the church, walked through to the rectory and then to Francis's bedroom. There he found the Browning he had concealed before departing for Rome. He helped himself to the key to the aging Toyota the diocese provided his friend and exited to the garage behind the church.
The Chevy had still been parked as he drove away in the anonymous Toyota.
He could only hope Gurt had shaken whatever tail might have been assigned to her.
The next morning he had rented a car and driven to Macon. On the way, he stopped in Barnesville, the county seat, and made arrangements to rent office space from a law school acquaintance. He was now a country lawyer with a single client.
His thoughts returning to the present, he walked back to the house. He listened with half an ear to his son's chatter, mostly soliciting assurances that a fishing expedition to the pond was on tomorrow's agenda. Making only the vaguest of promises, Lang examined what few facts he had.
There was something in the Gospel of James that someone very much wanted suppressed, wanted enough to kill anybody who might reveal it. His only lead to who that someone might be was the gospel itself. The longer he waited to get it translated, the greater the possibility his mysterious assailants would find him. Worse, the greater the chance they would find his son.
But where to get the documents put into readable form? A search had shown no more than a handful of universities listed someone knowledgeable in Coptic Greek. As a consequence, any trip to one of these schools would be both obvious and transparent. He didn't want some unknown professor to be the next victim.
Reaching into a pocket, he produced his BlackBerry and called up a schedule of foundation travel for the next two weeks. He scanned past the usual European and South American destinations. Damascus, Karachi, Istanbul.
Istanbul What did he recall about Istanbul?
That it was, had been, the place whose Orthodox patriarch had sent Father Strentenoplis to Rome. There had been, Lang vaguely remembered, patriarchs in Jerusalem, Antioch, Alexandria and Constantinople during the Byzantine Empire. But today? He started to call Francis before realizing the priest would be somewhere between Rome and Atlanta at the moment. Instead, he took the device in both hands, using thumbs to enter an e-mail to Sara.
An hour later, he lay in the four-poster beside Gurt. Her restlessness told him she was not asleep.
"You sure Darleen doesn't mind us camping out with her?" he asked.
"She will have disappointment when we leave. Correction, she will have disappointment when Manfred leaves."
Superficially, Lang found it perfectly understandable that anyone would be delighted to have the little boy around. Realistically, he found it difficult to accept that a middle-aged woman would want a small child underfoot.
As if reading his mind, something she did with disturbing regularity, Gurt rolled over to face him. "With her husband in jail, she is quite happy to have company. She has not been alone since she was seventeen. It has been a long time since she had a child in the house."
Perhaps Lang had underestimated the maternal instinct.
By the dim light from under the door, he could see Gurt's outline resting her elbow on the bed, her head in her hand. "She would be happy to keep him here…"
The slow curveball.
"… so I may help you find those who would harm his father."
The fast break, down and away.
"Are you sure that's smart, leaving a three-year-old with a woman you hardly know?"
Gurt took a moment, composing an answer. "We talk, Darleen and I. She is a good woman. She was not, I would know it. Besides, did you not say there are federal agents nearby?"
"US Marshals, I'd guess. But they're not here to guard Manfred."
Gurt moved her arm, placing her head on the pillow. "How long would we be gone?"
Lang noted the plural Gurt had already made the decision that his son would be fine in Darleen's care. He let it pass. "I'm not sure. I'll know more tomorrow. I've got a doctor's appointment and I'll drop by the office. Between Sara and Francis, I should have some idea then."
Long after her regular breathing told him Gurt was asleep, Lang wondered how she could be so certain his son would be fine left with Darleen. His only consolation was that the child's mother had done without his input for the last three years. That thought was less than comforting for more than one reason.
Buyukada
Princes' Islands
Sea of Marmara
Turkey
A Week Later
The call of the muezzin from the balconies of a dozen minarets were clearly audible across the water even though the mosques themselves were no more than needles against the silhouette of the shrinking Anatolian shoreline. The electronic enhancement of the five-times-a-day summons to prayer had increased their range if done little to give the flesh-creeping wails any melodic quality.
From his position at the stern of the ferry, Lang had watched as the ship passed Seraglio Point with its Topkapi Palace, home of the Ottoman sultans. And what a view those rulers of the near east for four and half centuries had enjoyed: the mouth of the Golden Horn to the Bosphorus, separating Europe from Asia. One city, two continents. Idly, he noted a Russian supertanker, high in the water as it made its way north back to the oil fields of the Black Sea.
He recalled the international friction these crafts had caused for years. The Russians, unwilling to hire a local pilot, would not suffer the oil spill resulting from one of the ships going aground less than a mile from Turkish shores on either side.
The foundation's Gulfstream had deposited Gurt and Lang at the customs house behind the main terminal at Istanbul's Ataturk Airport, where they had purchased visas for sixty dollars (euro or New Turkish lira would have been equally acceptable) and been welcomed to Turkey. As anticipated, there had been no customs. Both Lang and Gurt's weapons were available if needed and the copy of the Book of James was inside his shirt. A taxi, equally ambivalent as to currency, had taken them to Karakoy, the swarming anthill of piers from which ferries departed. Travel by water was Istanbul's preference when possible, avoiding the crowded streets and confining alleyways. Lang had noticed about half the women covered their heads; half of those with gaily colored scarfs, others with the full-length, long-sleeved black dress, their heads and faces covered by the traditional burka from which only the eyes were visible.
"Roaches!" Gurt had hissed, making no effort to conceal her scorn for women submitting to a male-dominated society.
Turkey was about 90 percent Islamic, mostly Sunni. Its constitution, however, mandated a secular government, freedom of religion and abolishing the fez and other religious dress in its universities. It was the only Islamic democracy in the world. This was beginning to slip, bit by bit. The country's new president, devoutly religious-
A tug at his sleeve. "Come see!"
Lang followed Gurt to the bow section just as the ship's whistle announced its arrival. Lang saw white two- and three-story buildings ringing a small harbor sheltering hundreds of small boats, a number of them scooting across the sapphire surface like so many bugs. Towering over the activity were green hills with houses stacked along the edges like merchandise on store shelves.
"I don't see any cars," Lang said.
"Motor vehicles are forbidden," Gurt replied. "Other than police or garbage trucks."
Gurt had read the guidebook. Or she had been here before in her past life during the bad old days of the Cold War on some mission neither of them was eager to discuss. This was Lang's first visit to the former capital of the eastern Roman, Byzantine, then Ottoman empires. These islands took their name, Princes', from the fact that the sixth-century emperor, Justin II, had built a palace here. Later, the scattered monasteries served as a place of banishment for overly ambitious members of the royal family or public officials, frequently in addition to blinding, slicing off a nose, having the tongue cut out or castration.
The Byzantines knew how to ensure neither a person nor his potential heirs would ever become troublesome again.
With the advent of steamboat service from the mainland in the late nineteenth century, the islands' beaches and wooded hills became popular resorts as well as home to a number of expatriates such as Leon Trotsky.
Lang noted a number of horse-drawn phaetons obviously waiting for the ship to dock. Bicycles zipped in and out of both equestrian and pedestrian traffic.
"Hope there's one of those carriages left for us," he said, turning to follow the stream of disembarking passengers.
"A bicycle would do you more good," Gurt teased.
Lang took her hand, leading her between a group of giggling high-school-age girls, none of whom wore scarfs. "Some other time when I have a few less broken bones."
"Perhaps a horse?"
"I try to avoid anything that is both bigger and dumber than I am."
As they stepped off the gangplank, Lang inhaled a potpourri of odors: coffee and baking bread, frying olive oil mixed with the pungent smell of horse dung, all blended with a trace of freshly cooked sweets. He and Gurt were standing in a village of shops, restaurants, small inns and businesses the purpose of which was unclear to anyone who did not read Turkish. Outdoor lokanta, cafés, were filled with customers sipping sweet apple tea from small, hourglass-shaped glasses. The mood, both of those just disembarked and those already there, was one of a holiday. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once.
He could have been standing in the center of a number of beach resorts worldwide.
Suitcase in one hand, Gurt's hand in the other, he shouldered his way through good-natured vacationers to where a pair of well-fed horses were harnessed to one of the carriages. The driver, dressed in jeans and golf shirt, held a sign with Lang's name on it.
Francis, who had arranged the visit to their destination, had thought of everything.
"Monastery of St. George?" Lang asked.
The driver nodded and said something in Turkish, gesturing they should climb in. Lang knew better than to attempt to assist Gurt aboard. She resented any effort, no matter how courtly, that suggested she, as a female, was due any treatment not owed to a man.
Without any perceptible signal from the driver, the horses trotted through the town's streets, hooves playing a syncopated rhythm against the pavement. With no change of pace, the coach began a climb up the hills. Absent vehicular traffic, the road could have been a highway from another century. Large villas shared ocean views with smaller cottages and a few hovels that had not seen paint nor repair for ages. Even these were draped with purple and blue bougainvillea.
At each dip or hollow, the driver applied a protesting brake handle to keep the speed at a manageable level.
They reached the crest, a narrow ridge dropping almost straight down on either side. The view was as spectacular as it was unobstructed. In the distance, the Turkish mainland was only a suggestion in purple. Other islands were set like emeralds in a placid ocean. Lang was so enchanted with the scenery, he hardly noticed an increase of breeze on his face. A squeeze of his hand brought him back to his surroundings. The phaeton was headed downhill fast enough to make him uncomfortable and the body of the thing was swaying dangerously, leaning first one way toward the deep valley on the right and jagged rocks lining the coast hundreds of feet below to the left.
Local custom or were they riding with a madman?
He leaned forward to speak to the driver.
Before he could say a word, the man bent over. With a grunt, he snatched loose a pin and the wagon's tongue and horses were gone, a blur as the carriage careened past. Then the driver hurled himself onto the only grassy shoulder Lang could see and rolled to a stop. Lang saw or imagined a smile on his face.
There was no other place to jump without a fall of hundreds of feet.
It was clear the rig was not going to make the next turn where the road disappeared around a stand of trees.
As happens when events move too fast to comprehend, Lang's mind went into slow motion.
The brake handle loomed before him.
Hand on the back of the driver's seat, Lang leaned forward. He couldn't reach the handle.
The bend in the road was rushing toward him, a giant mouth open to devour the carriage and its passengers. The speed increased, slow motion notwithstanding.
Seeing what he was trying to do, Gurt grabbed him by the belt, allowing him to fully extend.
His fingers brushed the wooden handle. Leaning as far as he could, he still could not close his hand around it.
Just ahead, the pavement ended in open space.
Buyukada
A Few Minutes Earlier
Emniyet Polis Inspector Mustafa Aziz stood behind his desk and tried to calm the man down long enough to understand what he was saying. Something about being bound, gagged and hidden in the woods just off the road after he had been forced from the phaeton he drove for a living. He had picked up the fare, supposedly to take him to one of the island's beaches, and then been forced at knifepoint to surrender his rig.
Obviously, something was missing. In the first place, why would someone be stupid enough to steal horses and carriage on a small island where search and detection would be all but certain? Second, the man had not been robbed of his money, little enough to make robbery an unlikely motive. Third, crime on the island consisted almost entirely of pickpockets, small-time theft and an occasional burglary.
He winced at the last part. The dearth of crime was why he would serve his last few years before retirement in this political backwater, guarding tourists and vacationers against purse snatchers. A beautiful place to work but hardly a place he could regain the reputation he had once enjoyed.
There had been a time when the young Aziz had a career as full of promise as a fruit tree in bloom. Then there had been what he mentally referred to as the Mohammad Sadberk Affair.
Sadberk had been prominent in Turkish politics, distinguished enough that not only Aziz's emnit polist, security police, were alerted when his wife reported him missing but the Yunis, Dolphin, rapid-reaction force as well. The politician had reputedly been on a fact-finding excursion to southeastern Turkey and there was reason to fear Kurdish rebels had taken him hostage. Stellar police work, a tip deemed fortunate at the time and plain luck led young inspector Aziz to a shabby resort on Turkey's southern coast.
Certain of fame and promotion, Aziz had not paused to consider the improbability of Kurds, or any other terrorists, choosing a hideout in an area favored by European tourists on all-inclusive, hundred-euro-a-day beach vacations, particularly since retreat by the suspected abductors across the Iraq border at the other end of the country would all but have guaranteed the end of pursuit.
Instead, Aziz had assembled a sizable force of police to surround the small inn a few streets back from the beach. He had not forgotten to include members of the press to record what would certainly be the turning point of his profession as a policeman.
And indeed it was.
Kevlar-clad Yunis smashed through a door as the cameras rolled. Their focus was on Sadberk, lipsticked and clad only in the finest French lace panties, and his companion, a young boy.
Although the Turks wink at a number of the Koran's prohibitions, homosexuality is not greeted with the same secular blind eye as, say, alcohol. Sadberk was politically ruined and his powerful friends outraged at what they viewed as an overzealous investigation to ruin a man who, like Aziz, had had a bright future.
The inspector had been transferred to turizm polist, tourist police, where his main duties had been to sit in the Sultanahmet district office in view of both the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, writing endless reports of lost or stolen cameras, wallets and passports. Even this had apparently not been enough for Sadberk's cronies. A year later, Aziz was exiled to Buyukada as though he had offended some Byzantine emperor.
Exiled or not, he intended to do his duty even if all that was involved was a pair of horses and a carriage, more likely borrowed than stolen. But first he had to calm the driver into coherence.
One again, the distraught man went through his story: a passenger had taken his rig at knifepoint. No, he had never seen the man before. In fact, the robber appeared foreign.
Aziz ran the tip of his index finger across his mustache. "Foreign? How?"
"He didn't speak at all, just gestured. He just didn't look like a Turk to me."
"Well, what did he look like?"
The driver shrugged as though saying it was the duty of the police to know such things. "Just under two meters, dark hair, brown eyes. Heavy, perhaps a hundred or more kilograms."
In other words, almost any adult male on the island.
"Did you get any idea where he was going?"
The man shook his head, bewildered. "On a small island?"
This time Aziz's hand went to his bald head. "No, no. Where on the island?"
A blank stare. "How would I know?"
Aziz leaned back in his chair and glanced at the stucco ceiling as though seeking the patience to endure this dolt a little longer. He was about to refer the man to someone for a description of his lost horses, one Aziz could easily imagine: long neck at one end, tail at the other, four legs each… when the phone on his desk rang.
Ordinarily, Aziz would have let someone else pick it up, it being unbecoming to his rank of inspector (albeit the only one on the island) to answer his own phone. Today, he would rather lose face than continue what was clearly a pointless conversation.
"Inspector Aziz," he announced.
He listened for a few minutes before thanking the caller and hanging up. "I think we have your horses and carriage," he said grimly.
Buyukada
Either he would find a way to grab the brake handle or Manfred would be an orphan in the next few seconds. Lang considered simply jumping until a good look at the stony ground told him the price of such a move at this speed would be much the same as following the carriage over the edge. The driver had known where the last spots soft with grass and loose sand were when he jumped.
Better to try something else.
If he could.
Lang unbuckled his belt, holding both ends in one hand. The first and second tries missed. On the third, he got the loop around his target. He threw his weight back as hard as he could, praying the belt would hold. Alligator was decorative but not as strong as the more plebeian cowhide. Muscles still healing sent a jolt of pain up his arms and across his back, anguish that brought tears to his eyes.
Still, he held on and pulled as Gurt, both arms around his waist, pulled him.
He heard the scrape of the wooden shoe against the metal rim of the wheel and felt the vibrations but the speed seemed undiminished. Then the curve was not rushing at them quite so fast.
One wheel bumped slowly over the edge and they were stopped, literally hanging over the edge of a very long drop. Three hundred or so feet straight down, the Sea of Marmara gnashed its rocky teeth in a swirl of creamy foam.
Gurt let go of Lang and started to step down to the ground.
Gravel crunched and the phaeton shuddered, edging an inch downhill.
Gurt froze in midstep. "I think the balance is not so good."
"Too good," Lang said, arms frozen to the belt still looped around the brake. "We move an ounce of it and well be in the water."
"And so? We stay here until someone come by and can help?"
Another movement by the carriage, slight though it was, answered that question.
"I don't think we have that long," Lang said needlessly.
As though to confirm the observation, a sudden shift in the breeze made the light rig lean another inch or so. Damn pity they weren't in a sturdy farm wagon. At least the top was down rather than adding to the potential sail area. Both Lang and Gurt remained still as statues as the rig swayed slightly in the breeze. At some point, gravity was going to claim it.
And them with it.
Almost afraid to move his lips, Lang said slowly, "I'm going to count to three. On three, we jump."
"And my bag? My clothes and makeup?"
Gurt might insist on being treated like a man, but she was still female.
"Were I you, I'd think more about whether you're going to be alive to use the replacements."
"But I do not know I can replace them here."
Lang repressed a sigh, trying not to reconcile Gurt's feminine worries about clothes and cosmetics with her ability to shoot a helicopter pilot in his aircraft from the ground as she had done during the Julian affair. To a man, women would be the last great unsolved mystery on earth.
Instead, he began to count, eliminating further discussion. "One, two…"
As though choreographed, two bodies leapt from the phaeton, hitting the hard surface of the road with a single thump. Lang's vision turned red, punctuated with blotches of color as his still-healing body responded with a jolt of pain that would have taken his breath away had not the impact already done so. There was a buzzing in his ears as he struggled both to suck air into his lungs and not to black out.
He fought his way to his knees, reaching behind him to make sure the Browning was still in its holster at the small of his back. Gurt was already on her feet, hand extended to him. "You are OK, yes?"
Lang took it and stood gingerly, determined not to show his discomfort. "I don't think anything's broken that wasn't already."
Together they stepped to the edge. Other than a single wheel spinning in the surf as if still on its axle, the phaeton had vanished.
A sound behind them caused both to spin around. Lang's hand was on the butt of his weapon.
They were looking at a small cart pulled by a donkey. Sitting on the board provided for the driver sat a man with a full beard. He was dressed in a black robe and a tall hat was on his head. He was regarding them curiously as if they might have dropped from the moon. For an instant, Lang thought he was looking at the reincarnation of Father Strentenoplis.
A monk from the monastery?
"Do you speak English?"
The man nodded gravely. "A little."
"You are from the monastery of St. George?"
He nodded again. "That is where I serve my church and my God, yes."
"That was where we were going when…" Lang trailed off, unsure how or if to explain.
The priest pointed to the top of the next hill. "It is there. You cannot see it because of the trees." He stepped down from his perch. "One of you may ride…"
Taking a closer look at the wagon, Lang saw it was full of fish and vegetables, no doubt from a market in the town below. "No, no, we wouldn't…"
Gurt led Lang to the cart. "My friend here is-was- hurt."
The man gave Lang the sort of look he might have used in appraising a new donkey. "When your carriage fell over the edge?"
Gurt and Lang started at each other as he continued. "I saw it as it was, was… balancing? Yes, balancing before it fell into the sea. I was not near to help and I feared if I made myself known, you might turn and…" He pulled a cell phone from the folds of his robe. "But I did call for help."
From whom, a sky crane?
As if on cue, Lang heard the pulsating wail of a police siren. A small white car with blue stripes emerged from a grove of cedars sculpted by the wind. A bar on top flashed red and blue.
Lang forgot his aches and pains for the moment. Arrival of the local police rarely heralded change for the better. It was certain the weapons he and Gurt carried would create problems if discovered. The last thing they needed was to be confined in the local jail where potential assassins could easily locate him. Visions of the prison of the 70s movie, Midnight Express, came to mind with all of its dark horror of filthy cells and brutal guards. At least that particular building had been converted to one of Istanbul's more luxurious hotels.
The car came to a stop amid swirling dust. The driver was in uniform, the passengers in mufti. A short bald-headed man with a mustache got out, holding his police creds in his hand. He was dressed in what Lang guessed might have been the only suit and tie on the island. From the backseat emerged a younger man wearing what looked like American jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt open at the collar.
The policeman pointed and asked a question Lang could not understand. The younger man replied in the same language, shaking his head.
The policeman gave a smile that wrinkled his round face but didn't reach his eyes. "I am Inspector Aziz," he said in almost accentless English. He did not extend a hand. "This man had his horses and carriage taken at the point of a knife. He tells me you are not the guilty person."
A good start.
"Your passports, please." The policeman's hand was outstretched.
Lang, always suspicions of both police and such requests, toyed with the idea of claiming both documents had been lost along with their baggage. He decided the ensuing problems with having no official ID outweighed his reservations. He and Gurt handed them over. The inspector flipped through both of them, squinting at the date of the recently purchased visas.
"You have had quite a bit of, of… excitement since your arrival in Turkey." To Lang's discomfort, he slid the passports into a jacket pocket. "Perhaps," he continued, "you would be so good as to tell me who you are and what has happened here."
Lang explained.
The inspector ran a finger across his mustache, a gesture Lang guessed was more reflexive than intentional. When Lang had finished, the dark brown eyes narrowed. "No attempt was made to rob you or the lady?"
Lang shook his head. "No."
"And you had never seen this man, the driver, before?" "No."
Again, the finger ran along the mustache. "What possible reason, then, would the man have to risk his own life by jumping from the carriage and leaving you to fall to your deaths in the sea?"
Lang shrugged, eyebrows raised at a question without an answer. "I have no idea, Inspector."
The Turk studied Lang's face carefully, his disbelief clear though unspoken.
The car's radio exploded in a rash of static and words. The uniformed driver acknowledged the message.
"They have recovered the horses," the inspector announced to no one in particular, "but there is no information about the man who took them."
Lang pointed to the hill where the monastery was supposedly hidden by trees. "Inspector, I, both of us, would like to continue on our way if you have nothing further." Lang held out a hand. "And I'd like our passports back."
Aziz seemed to actually notice Gurt for the first time. Perhaps it was an excuse to ignore Lang's request. "How long will you be in Turkey?"
Lang shrugged. "We want to see someone at the monastery. After that… well, there would be no reason to stay."
The policeman gave that chilly smile again and patted the pocket into which the passports had disappeared. "There are many reasons, Mr. Reilly. Have you ever taken a cruise up the Bosphorus? Seen the Blue Mosque or Topkapi Palace? Shopped at one of our bazaars?"
Lang held out his hand again. "Inspector, our passports. We cannot even get a hotel room without them."
Instead, Aziz handed over a business card. "Should you have problems without your papers, have your hotel call me."
Lang's patience was wearing thin. "You have no right to-"
The Turk snorted. "You are not in America, Mr. Reilly. Here, your rights are what I say they are, certainly as far as your passport is concerned. When I have finished my investigation, it will be returned to you. For that reason, I suggest you keep me aware of where you might be found. In the meantime, take the time to enjoy these islands and Istanbul."
It looked like they would have little choice.
Gurt, Lang and the priest watched the police car until it vanished among the trees before the latter spoke. "It is but a short trip up to the monastery. Come, we all can sit and have something refreshing to drink."
Lang smiled tightly. Once again, he didn't see any other options.
Buyukada
Twenty Minutes Later
Inspector Aziz sat behind his desk, glaring at the two passports as though ordering them to give up their secret.
The American, Reilly, and the Fuchs woman simply did not pass what he referred to as the smell test. The more a person's story varied from the inspector's personal experience, the more it smelled like meat left too long in the hot sun. Reilly and the woman would have him believe they had come to Istanbul and the Princes' Islands simply to visit the monastery of St. George.
Implausible but possible.
Of all of Istanbul's sights, a twentieth-century cloister ranked near the bottom. Still, there was no accounting for the quirks of Christians in general and Americans in particular.
It was the next part that defied belief.
For someone to risk not only apprehension for theft of the horses and rig but also chance breaking their neck to jump from the carriage to kill two tourists made no sense at all. In the first place, the felon had a knife-the owner of the phaeton had seen it. Why not use it?
For that matter, a gun, perhaps a rifle, would have done the job. The fact a firearm was not employed indicated the would-be killer probably had no access to one, no way to evade Turkey's stringent gun laws.
In short, an amateur rather than a professional criminal.
But jumping from the carriage?
The only answer Aziz could come up with was that the unsuccessful assassin had somehow known his prey would be difficult to kill in the close quarters a knife required. That would suggest two things: first, Reilly was not your ordinary tourist and, second, whoever had tried to kill him knew it. If that supposition were true, then who was he?
The policeman spun his swivel chair to face the monitor and keyboard behind his desk. A few taps brought up the Interpol Web site. He entered the password both for Turkey and himself. He now was into the international police organization's list of criminals and suspects.
He entered Lang Reilly's name and was rewarded with immediate results. Mr. Reilly, an American lawyer, had been suspected in the deaths of two street hoodlums in London several years ago, although there was insufficient evidence to bring him to trial. A few months past, he had killed one of the men who had kidnapped a wealthy British philanthropist. Aziz moved closer to the screen, squinting. Yes, that was what Scotland Yard's report said, killed an armed gunman… with a spear.
Hardly your average tourist.
The Fuchs woman did not appear at all.
But Reilly would bear watching. If he were up to some illegal purpose, Inspector Aziz would make sure he was the person to apprehend the American. Reilly just might be Aziz's own passport, one back to the mainland.
Monastery of St. George
At the Same Time
The buildings had been erected less than a hundred years ago but the place still had the air of its medieval cousins. From the outside, its most noticeable feature was the Orthodox, or Greek, cross atop its domed roof. Inside was the familiar four-sided open cloister surrounded by a roofed colonnade along which black-clad monks blended with the afternoon's shadows and passed just as silently. From somewhere inside, melodic chants flowed on air scented by the courtyard's multiple rosebushes. It could have been built in the early twenty-first century or the first part of the twelfth.
Lang found comfort in such anachronisms. They gave a sense of timelessness that said no matter how great the world's problems, civilization would endure and continue. By contrast, the individual's woes diminished.
Gurt set the her glass on the stone bench they shared while waiting for the prior. "Stra, he called it?"
She referred to the priest who had escorted them here and insisted they take some sort of refreshment.
Lang ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. "Somewhere between wine and grape juice, I'd say." He drained the last of it. "A drink for the abstemious."
Gurt looked at him with that expression that said she had no clue what he had said.
He changed the subject to one they both had intentionally avoided till now. "How do you guess they knew we were in Turkey? For that matter, they even knew we were coming here."
This time she was on familiar turf. "Francis, Father Fancy, used his church contacts to arrange for us to meet the patriarch of Istanbul, did he not?" "It was the only way I knew to get us in to see about getting the book translated."
"Perhaps his conversation was overheard."
"Not likely. I insisted he use e-mail. In Latin."
Gurt stood and stretched, her hands above her head. "Perhaps Latin is not as dead as you think."
"Meaning?"
She shrugged. "Meaning someone understood it, someone with a way to read the e-mails."
"That doesn't help a lot. In this day and time, hacking into someone else's computer is as common as housebreaking. Reading Latin, though…"
The conversation halted as a portly man in a black robe strode purposefully toward them. Had he not had a long beard, he could have been a priest or monk from the Roman Church.
He stopped in front of them, extending a hand. "Mr. Reilly? Ms. Fuchs? I am Father Stephen, the prior. The abbot, who is also the patriarch you seek, is at the library of the school of theology on Heybeliada, another of these islands."
Lang shook hands and waited for Gurt to do so before he asked, "Do you know when he will be back? I thought we had an appointment…"
The monk held up his hands, palms out. "I fear not. Although the school itself has been closed for years, scholars still gather at the library. His Holiness enjoys a good theological argument and tends to forget the time. He may return quite late."
Lang looked around the cloister, aware that some European monasteries allowed guests. "Any chance we could stay here for the night?"
The prior shook his head. "You, yes. The chapter forbids women in the cells."
Gurt's look said it clearly: Muslims were not the only sexists in Turkey.
The monk had also seen her expression. "It is an ancient rule, Ms. Fuchs. Both historically and today, men join monastic orders to pray and serve God with their full attention. For that reason, we have neither television nor radio. Only religious books are allowed. Women, particularly attractive ones such as yourself, are one of the distractions they wish to avoid."
Gurt appeared mollified if not satisfied.
The prior continued. "You may find it difficult to find lodging here. This is the peak of vacation season and the few hotels tend to fill up. I suggest you return to the mainland, where you are more likely to find rooms. The ferry to the mainland quits running at eight o'clock."
"But," Lang protested, "the patriarch, we need to see him!"
"He will be here tomorrow until about noon. He then leaves to go over to Istanbul for the baptism of a friend's grandson at the Church of the Savior in Chora. Although quite small, it contains some of the most beautiful of Byzantine mosaics. You might want to meet him there."
Lang had really wanted to stay at the monastery. Anyone who didn't belong would be obvious. Plus, another ferry trip would be sure to give whoever wanted him dead another try. At least in the city, he and Gurt might be able hide in the cosmopolitan crowds. They would certainly stand out less than on these remote islands.
"Please tell him we will look forward to seeing him at the baptism. I'll need only a few minutes of his time."
Side Hotel and Pension
Utanga Sok 20
Sultanahmet
Istanbul
Early Evening
The hotel was a small, simple place with a limited menu served on the rooftop terrace. From their table, one of only ten, Lang and Gurt had a spotlighted view of the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and the Egyptian obelisk that marked what had been the center of the Hippodrome, Byzantium's third-century 100,000-seat stadium. They trusted the owner, also the maitre d', to select dinner. They shared a huge plate of fish shish kebab with sides of imam bayildt, literally, "the imam likes it," small eggplants stuffed with tomatoes and onions, followed by an oven-baked rice pudding served cold. The bottle of white Doluca wine, though astringent, did not go to waste.
The proprietor had shown a special interest in them since their arrival. Lang guessed few Americans stayed here, let alone those without passports. No papers meant formal registration was unnecessary as well as impossible. In short, the money for their room would go straight into the owner's pocket without notice to the tax man. The owner hovered nearby as Gurt looked up from a city map similar to those given away by hotels across Europe, one sponsored by local merchants and restauranteurs. "Is the Grand Bazaar open at this hour?"
The proprietor shook his head sadly. "No, madam, most shops are closed by now." He brightened and gave Lang a wink. "But the place itself is open. There are a number of restaurants, coffee shops and even a mosque that never close. You can shop the windows and it will cost you nothing."
Lang gave Gurt a sharp look and a slight shake of the head as the hotelier continued, pointing, "Go left to Yerebatan Cad. You will see a stone there that is all that is left of the Million, an arch built by the Romans. Go left again. The street becomes a different name several times but it will take you to the bazaar."
Lang watched as the man scooped up the remaining dishes and headed toward the stairs down to the kitchen. "Are you nuts?"
With an air of innocence that didn't quite fit, Gurt raised an eyebrow as she fished a pack of Marlboros out of her purse. She shook one out and tapped it slowly against the tabletop, a habit Lang inexplicably found sexy.
She lit up with a match from the table and inhaled deeply. "Nuts? What makes you think so?"
Lang glanced at the adjacent table. Its occupants were smoking, too. For that matter, he was the only customer who wasn't. Almost every man he had seen on the streets had a cigarette dangling from his lips or fingers. The Turks obviously liked to smoke. Maybe there was something in the local water supply that prevented lung cancer and emphysema. On second thought, the only water he had seen consumed had been from bottles bearing French names.
"What makes me think so?" He lowered his voice. "Just a few hours ago, somebody tried to kill us. Now you want to go out at night and wander the streets?"
"Wander? We will not 'wander.' We have directions."
"But-"
"But what? We arrived by twice switching taxis from the ferry to make sure we were not being followed, then one of those, those…"
"Dolmus"
It had been an early fifties Chevrolet from which the seats had been removed and opposing benches installed behind the driver. They drove set routes. Cheaper than cabs, more regular than buses. They rarely moved before they were filled with passengers, hence the name, dolmus, Turkish for "full."
She wrinkled her nose at the memory. "The man next to me was almost in my lap and had not bathed recently."
"And couldn't take his eyes off your bustline."
"Perhaps his wife wears one of those horrid black things and he was angry I was not."
Lang was fairly certain he could distinguish anger from lust. Still, from what he had read, Muslim men could be offended by an excessive show of legs, arms or other female anatomy. Perhaps Gurt's sundress with the scoop neck had trespassed across some line. He let her continue.
"Anyway, we agreed we had not been followed. When we got here, we had no passports, so the owner had to phone the police. That means we are not in the police register as we would be had our papers been in order. Whoever might be looking for us cannot chop into-"
"Hack into."
"Chop, hack, what does it matter? Machts nichts. They cannot find us as easily as if we had registered in the normal manner."
"So?"
"So, why not have a look at the Grand Bazaar?"
There was a flaw in her logic, Lang was certain. He just couldn't find it.
She stood, stubbing out her cigarette, and delivered the clincher. "I am going. If you wish to accompany me, come along."
Lang knew Gurt was more than capable of taking care of herself. Even so, there was something in him, perhaps the mixed curse/blessing of being born Southern, that would not tolerate letting a woman go out alone at night on the streets of a strange city, even one who had saved his life more than once with skills decidedly unladylike.
Outside, the streets were well lit and populated. The number of fellow pedestrians thinned more and more the farther they got from Sultanahmet Square. Lang's hand went to the small of his back when a man stepped out of a doorway.
"Good evening," he said in perfect English. "You are enjoying your stay in Istanbul?"
He had a closely cropped beard and a recent haircut. The linen suit he wore without a tie fit snugly. In the shadows cast by streetlights, Lang could not be sure it was too tight to allow a shoulder holster.
Rather than risk offense on the slim chance he had approached them for some legitimate purpose, Lang responded, "We are, thank you."
Lang tensed as the stranger reached into a pocket. Then he handed Lang a business, card. It was too dark to read the small print.
"Saleem Moustafa," the man said, extending a hand.
Lang knew better than to give a potential assailant a chance to grab his right arm. Gurt had moved back a step or two, too far away for the stranger to assault both at the same time. He noted her purse was open and her hand in it.
"Lang Reilly," he said.
The man matched their pace for a few moments before he said, "I think the old city is best seen in the evening. Would you agree?"
Lang shrugged. "I haven't seen it in the daylight yet."
"Oh, a recent arrival?"
Lang stopped, careful to keep Moustafa between him and Gurt. "I appreciate your thoughts, Mr. Moustafa but…"
The man smiled widely. "My brother has Istanbul's finest rug shop. If you will just come with me…"
If this was cover for someone to follow them, it was less than brilliant.
"No thanks. We're not in the market."
Moustafa was not to be shed so easily. "I assure you, Mr. Reilly, no other shop in this city…"
Lang stopped, turning to face the man. "Thank you for the opportunity but no."
Moustafa gave a slight bow, smiling. "Then, a pleasant stay to you."
He was gone as abruptly as he had appeared.
"You suppose he really is a rug merchant?" Lang asked.
Gurt shrugged. "Perhaps, since he is now talking to a couple behind us. But the man across the street does not seem to be selling anything and he has been with us since we left the hotel."
Lang bent over, pretending to tie a shoe. The man on the other side of the street turned to study street numbers. The man, like Moustafa, wore a suit, this one with a tie.
Lang tried to see the man's shoes. Footwear told a lot. A woman, for instance, did not plan on long walks if she was wearing heels. A man who spent a lot of time on his feet was unlikely to choose loafers. This man had on lace ups with thick soles that Lang guessed were rubber, which made it easier to follow someone without being heard.
Wordlessly, Lang took Gurt by the elbow, steering her into one of the endless alleys that intersect streets in Istanbul's older areas. They stood in darkness as the man fidgeted, trying to decide what to do. Looking as casual as possible, he lit a cigarette and crossed the street, pausing only briefly before entering the alley himself.
Only a true amateur would enter where he could not see on a surveillance job. Or someone supremely confident.
Gurt knew the drill from years, of agency practice. She kicked over a trash can, stomped her feet and made whatever noise she could. The effect was to distract the watcher who had now become the prey. As he left the lights of the main street, Lang silently slipped from the shadows behind him. A sweep of the foot and the man stumbled, his arms flailing to give him balance. In one step, Lang grabbed both hands, pulling them back behind the man's back. Before he could protest, Gurt was rifling his jacket pockets.
She stepped back, holding a pistol in one hand and a wallet in the other. Jerking the man's arms upward until he grunted in pain, Lang frog-walked him to the edge of light from the street. Gurt held up the wallet. Something was shining, reflecting the light. Something like… a badge.
A policeman's badge similar to the one the inspector had displayed that afternoon.
"Oh, shit," Lang muttered.
Gurt had seen it, too. Holding the weapon up, she removed the magazine and emptied it of bullets before returning it and the wallet to their owner.
Lang let go of the man's arms. Even from the back, he could sense the anger.
"Sorry," Lang said. "We had no way to know…"
"Cowboys!" the policeman spat. "You Americans are cowboys, attacking a man on the street!"
"Attacking someone who was following us," Lang corrected. "The next time you shadow somebody, you might let them know you are the police, not a potential mugger."
"I may have you both arrested!"
Lang shrugged. "You may but only after you admit you did such a poor job following us. Had we been criminals, you could well be dead."
The cop made the motions of dusting himself off, more to give his hands something to do than a necessity. Lang's observation had quenched some of his anger. He tugged at his jacket and straightened his tie. "In the future, be more careful."
"I'd say Inspector Aziz thinks we must be up to something," Lang observed, watching the angry policeman return the way they had come.
Gurt zipped her purse shut. "That causes us no problem."
Lang wasn't so sure. "The next person following us may or may not be a cop. There's no way to be sure."
"Nor are we sure there will be a next person. Now, let us go to the bazaar."
Once more, Lang was amazed at Gurt's ability to seamlessly switch from possible danger to shopping opportunities. Was it just her or were all women like that?
Two more rug merchants approached them before they reached their destination, each nicely dressed, each speaking fluent English. Lang found it disconcerting to be accosted by strangers whose motive could vary from sales to murder.
They reached an ornately arched gate next to the Nuruosmanley Mosque where men made ceremonial ablutions at faucets set in a row before entering to pray. The bazaar itself was a labyrinth covered by a painted vault. Founded by Mehmet II shortly after the Ottoman conquest of the city in 1453, it had grown from its origins as a warehouse to the world's largest market.
The first corridor they entered was, according to several signs, Kalpakcilar Caddesi, a phrase that meant nothing to Lang or Gurt. Wider than many of the city's streets, it was lined with tiny shops whose windows displayed gold and diamond jewelry. These all appeared to be closed. On the right were bays and halls of establishments selling rugs, brass, glassware, leather goods, water pipes, bolts of textiles and many objects Lang could not readily identify. Contrary to what the hotelier said, many of these were open, their proprietors leaving their wares long enough to aggressively seek custom from passersby.
Lang was instantly alert. The constant movement of people made perfect cover for someone wielding a knife. Gurt sensed the potential, too. Without speaking, she joined him along the southern row of stores so the shops themselves protected their left flank, obviating the possibility of having to fire across their bodies should the need arise.
Dividing their attention between the ambling crowd of visitors to the market and the goods on display, they passed a small cafe as several young men were emerging. They all were bearded and wore the small, embroidered caps and vests common to Muslim men in the city.
One gave Gurt obvious attention. He took two steps toward her and snatched at the shoulder strap of her purse. Before his hand closed, Gurt gave his extended arm a chop across the elbow that elicited a yelp of pain and a quick retreat.
His comrades found this immensely funny. The would-be thief was now an object of ridicule, having been bested by a mere woman. Either to show off to his friends or from annoyance at the put-down, the purse snatcher flushed, stepped closer and drew back an open hand as though to deliver a slap.
Lang never even considered intervening. He knew what was coming.
The young thug had counted on the submissiveness of Muslim women. What he got was somewhat different.
He let out a surprised yelp as he found himself both airborne and upside down, followed by a thump as he hit the floor. He was still gasping for breath when Gurt delivered a kick to the groin that might permanently adversely affect any sexual endeavors.
One of his fellows made the mistake of rushing to his comrade's defense. He was greeted with a nose-shattering right hook that would have done credit to a professional boxer.
The rest of the group grumbled for a moment as if about to do something as painful as their two cohorts. Apparently they simultaneously recalled previous engagements.
Whether their collective memory had been jogged by Gurt or the approach of a uniformed policeman, Lang would never know. He did know having the cops arrive was rarely a good thing. This one, though, was doing a poor job of masking a grin that wouldn't go away.
"I apologize," he said in heavily accented English. "I have had problems with those, those… hooligans before. They steal what they can in the bazaars and frighten the tourists such as yourselves." He nodded to Gurt. "I would think at least two of them will go elsewhere." He watched as the last of the group disappeared around a corner. "I am… what? Shame, yes, shame for my city."
Gurt, not even breathing hard, smiled. "We are nothing but well treated here."
"I have been impressed by how very courteous you Turks are," Lang chimed in.
Except for one very bad apple on the Princes' Islands who tried to kill us.
The policeman made no effort this time to conceal a grin. "You have… what do you say? Teached them a lesson."
As he left, he couldn't resist taking one last look at the tall blonde woman who had physically beaten two men. Islam, Lang guessed, didn't have many Gurts.
An hour later, Gurt and Lang left the bazaar. He was carrying a box containing a pair of garish carpet slippers Gurt had insisted he buy. She had enjoyed haggling with the shopkeeper far more than he was going to enjoy the shoes. Where in Atlanta do you display red, blue and green footwear? Answer: at home where no one you know will ever see them.
She had purchased a pair of purses that had probably never seen France despite the double-C brass clasp of one of Paris's more chic fashion houses. As she had noted, the price had been right, an opinion she might change if they fell apart in a week or so. One thing was certain: the Atlanta Chanel store would collapse in laughter if asked to honor any supposed warranty issued by its Grand Bazaar branch.
They exited the way they had come in. They were greeted by the wavering wails that were calls to yatsi, the fifth and last prayers of the day, from the adjacent mosque.
They were also greeted by a group of scruffy-looking young men just outside the gate.
Two or three of the young hoodlums from inside and two or three Lang and Gurt had not seen before. It was a safe guess they weren't there to apologize.
But how?
Easily enough. Of the multiple ways in and out, only four led toward the part of town where tourists would be likely to stay. Several faced toward the slope that lead to the Spice Bazaar and the Golden Horn beyond. With one man with a cell phone covering each of the probable gates, the gang could quickly assemble at a place across Lang and Gurt's path.
Lang cursed himself for not considering the fracas inside might be continued. The two young men had received injuries to their pride far more serious than Gurt had inflicted on their bodies. Being not only physically beaten but also humbled by a woman was an insult few Muslim men would ignore. Nor would their friends let them.
Lang's hand went to his back, where the steel of the Browning reassured him. Undesirable as shooting their way out might be, it was preferable to what these hoodlums had in mind. Explaining weapons to the police was not why he and Gurt were here.
There had to be a better way and it was right in front of him.
Taking Gurt's left hand, he snatched her toward the mosque.
Inside, rows of arched windows of intricately designed panes were black with the night in stark contrast to the lighter tiles set in intricate and abstract patterns. The dome with its supporting arches must have contained thousands of them. A wooden calligraphic frieze ran above the gallery of the square prayer hall. There was little time to admire the city's first Baroque mosque. Men were kneeling on the floor facing the mihrab, or niche indicating the direction of Mecca. A few latecomers screamed in outrage at the violation of their sanctuary by the presence of a woman in the men's prayer section and an indecently clad one at that.
Time to change plans. It was clear he and Gurt would find no refuge here. Lang shot a glance over his shoulder. Two of the gang were already coming through the door. Neither had stopped long enough to remove their shoes. A third entered, saw Lang and Gurt and shouted as he pointed.
The mosque went silent as the murmur of prayer stopped. First one, then a second man stood to glare at the new set of intruders. Suddenly realizing their mistake, the young men from the bazaar started edging their way back toward the entrance. It was already blocked by several infuriated worshipers.
Lang and Gurt made a dash for a doorway on the opposite side of the building. Behind them, they heard enraged shouts. Apparently sacrilege by believers or infidels was equally egregious.
A glance over his shoulder told Lang that a dozen or so shoeless and angry Muslims were in pursuit. Weaving in and out of alleys, he and Gurt tried without success to lose the men behind them. In a few blocks, Lang realized they were close to the hotel. Letting a mob know where they were staying was among the last things he intended to do. They had just rounded a corner and come into view of the Blue Mosque when he spied another small inn. Without hesitation, they entered, ignoring the openmouthed clerk behind a reception desk.
Gurt headed for the stairs and took a stride up only to find the passage blocked by a red-faced man pushing a cart loaded with baggage. Above him were several Asian men and women.
Swell.
A great time to encounter one of the Japanese tour groups that occupy budget hotels the world over.
There was no place to go but down.
At the bottom of a short flight of stairs was a door, which Lang jerked open and stopped, staring.
He was looking at water.
Not a puddle or an indoor pool but a span of black water that stretched as far as the light from the doorway let him see. He made out rows of Corinthian capped columns under multiple arches that faded into the gloom.
What had he read in the guidebook on the plane?
The sixth-century Byzantine emperor Justinian had built a cistern underneath what was then the royal palace, the present location of the Blue Mosque, as a source of water should the city come under siege. He recalled something about eighty thousand cubic meters. There had been a great deal more information, but it hardly seemed relevant as he heard angry shouts above. He only wished he could recall if the book had mentioned the depth.
The yells were growing closer and he could hear footsteps on the stairs. Both he and Gurt could swim if need be.
It was only waist deep.
He and Gurt waded blindly until they reached the nearest column. Lang measured by wrapping his arms around it. Not wide enough to hide them if the men behind them had a flashlight. They moved farther away and stood silently. The sound of an occasional ripple told Lang they were not entirely alone in this amazing pond. The realization sent cold fingers of apprehension down his backbone, a chill he tried to persuade himself was merely the coolness of the water.
What creatures inhabited the cistern, living in water and darkness? His imagination conjured up a number of very unpleasant possibilities: Some heretofore unknown species of piranha? Crocodiles? Somewhere he had read about freshwater sharks in a South American lake.
A small splash inches away made him flinch. Fish. The water was full of fish. He could feel small bodies nudging his clothing. The story of how they got here would be an interesting one.
The door through which they had entered opened, casting a rectangle of light floating on the water, illumination that did not reach them. Lang could hear voices. From the tone, he guessed there was an argument about who would volunteer to wade into the cistern to search it.
There were a couple of splashes as at least two men entered the water.
Lang leaned over and whispered into Gurt's ear.
Both slipped under the surface and began to swim, her hand holding on to his shirt. She still had the bag with the counterfeit purses in the other. He made sure each stroke stayed beneath the surface where it would not make a sound.
When he had to come up for breath, he stood, listening. The splashes of pursuit seemed no farther nor nearer. Sound would be unreliable here. The water, the multiarched ceiling would echo each shout, each splatter so that it would be impossible to be certain either of its direction or proximity. Lang could only retreat back below the surface and hope he didn't run into them by mistake.
The good news was that the men behind him were just as disoriented as he.
When he surfaced for his next gulp of air, all was silent. Lang checked the luminous dial of his watch and counted off five full minutes. Beside the occasional piscine splash, he could hear his own teeth chatter. The chill factor of the water was becoming uncomfortable.
Gurt's sneeze echoed from the stone walls.
The sound brought shouts and more splashing although it was impossible to be sure of the direction.
Lang thought the sounds and resulting echoes might be getting more distant. Then, only silence punctuated with an occasional ripple pressed on Lang's eardrums, a quiet so heavy it had a sound of its own.
They, too, were listening.
After another sneeze had potentially betrayed his and Gurt's position, Lang whispered, "We can't stay here."
"OK, you plan to go where?"
Lang's foot touched something on the otherwise smooth bottom. He stooped and picked up something of stone. About the size of a softball. There was no light to determine exactly what it was or whether it had fallen from the centuries-old roof or was part of something else.
It really didn't matter.
He waited until a voice, then another bounced off the walls of the cavernous lake. Making the best guess he could as to direction, he hurled the stone the opposite way. He was rewarded with yells and sounds of men trudging through the water. He was certain now they were going away from him and Gurt.
He wanted to wait a few minutes, let them put even more distance between them.
"It is not safe to stay," Gurt grumbled. "If we remain longer, we'll have pneumonia."
"Better pneumonia than lynched. Come on."
Instead of risking returning the way they had entered, Lang searched the inky dark until he thought he saw a tiny blur of light. Hands outstretched to prevent colliding with columns, they slowly waded toward it. From ten or fifteen feet away, Lang recognized light around the edges of a door. They climbed out of the water shaking like spaniels with the chill.
Lang tried the door. "It's locked."
He could feel Gurt's hand over his as she checked out the lock by touch. "Is an old one. Do you have a knife?"
"Will a credit card do?"
"Try it."
After several minutes of sliding the card up and down the frame without finding the locking mechanism, Lang said, "I can't find the damn bolt."
"Perhaps it is simply swollen shut from the moisture, not locked."
"No, I can see light around the edge."
"Try a hard kick."
Lang gave the door a blow with his foot and it moved slightly. With a second, it swung open, its rusted locking mechanism dangling. Climbing a few stairs put the pair in the lobby of a another small hotel. Lang could hear each step squish water from his shoes. In his imagination, a fish leaped from a pants pocket. The clerk and two guests stared bug-eyed at two people, fully clothed, dripping wet and calmly walking through to the street.
Lang stopped at the door, unable to resist turning to the guests. "Lovely swimming pool but not very well lit."
Once back in their own hotel room, Gurt held up one of her two new purses, wrinkled as prune. "Ach! It has become ruined!"
Lang looked at the box with his carpet slippers in it. It was hemorrhaging red dye. Destroyed, no doubt.
He wouldn't have to wear the damn things.
"Ah, well, it's an ill wind…"
Gurt's glare told him he had been speaking out loud.
He hoped she hadn't understood what he meant. But when he climbed into bed, instead of the noisy and joyous sex that usually followed a close call, an expressionless back was turned to him.
Church of St. Saviour in Chora
The Next Morning
The taxi had careened along the road paralleling the Theodosian. Walk, four miles of fortified gates, towers and moats that had sealed off the city from the landmass from the Sea of Marmara to the Golden Horn. For a thousand years, their red tiles and yellowish limestone had resisted sieges by Attila the Hun, Russians, Bulgars, Arabs and even the armies of the Fourth Crusade.
The twin-domed Church of St. Saviour was unimposing compared to the massive mosques that dotted the city. It did, however, contain one of the finest displays of Byzantine mosaics.
Lang was glad they had come early enough to give them time to see the genealogy and life of Christ in the north and south domes, the chronology of the life of the Virgin, Christ's infancy and ministry, all done in tiles no bigger than the nail of his little finger. Like many artists, the fourteenth-century remodeler of the church, Theodore Metocites, had an ego. He had included a scene of himself presenting the finished building to Christ.
Styles change; human nature does not.
Outside in the small walled garden, guests were arriving for the baptism. There were none in obvious Muslim dress. The chatter of multiple conversations slowed, then ceased as a tall man with a flowing white beard appeared among a number of younger priests. From his black vestments, tall hat and Greek cross, Lang surmised he was seeing the patriarch, an assumption fortified by each guest bowing their head for the holy man's touch and blessing.
Lang was unsure exactly how to approach the churchman with his request. He need not have worried. The patriarch stopped in front of him and smiled.
"You must be the American, Lang Reilly," he said in slightly accented English. "You were the friend of Father Strentenoplis?"
Lang nodded. "Yes, Your Holiness."
The old man shook his head sadly. "May his soul be with God. One of our American friends in the Roman Church was kind enough to contact someone at the Vatican who called my office here about your visit. Has it been a pleasant one?"
Other than nearly going over a cliff and being chased by a mob from a mosque.
"Yes, sir."
"I understand you have a document in ancient Greek you wish translated."
"Actually in Egyptian Greek. It's supposed to be one of the Nag Hammadi books."
The patriarch held out a hand, age spotted and ridged with blue veins. "May I see it?"
Lang reached into his shirt, thankful he had wrapped the pages in a waterproof bag to protect it against sweat, Last night's excursion would have ruined it otherwise. "It is a copy"
The old man smiled again. "So I see. Or its authors chose to use bond paper available at any copy store."
Lang was always relieved to know he was dealing with someone with a sense of humor. "I have reason to believe some people don't want its contents known."
A chuckle like the sound of dry logs burning. "Some people would suppress all knowledge. Our brothers in Rome once had that reputation. On the other hand, our church, the church of Constantine, preserved the wisdom and science of the ancients, tolerated their religions, when the Western church had declared science and the old gods heresies. Be assured you will get an accurate translation in that tradition."
"Thank you, sir. Without being unappreciative, might I ask when the translation will be complete?"
The patriarch handed the pages to a priest at his elbow. "There are only a few pages. I see no reason why you cannot have it in two days. Three at the most. In the meantime, enjoy this marvelous city. You might start right here with this fine collection of mosaics the Ottoman Turks were kind enough to preserve."
He saw the look of skepticism on Lang's face. "Preserve them they did. When Constantinople fell, all churches were converted to mosques, frescos and mosaics plastered over. In 1922 when French and English occupation ended, Ataturk's constitution proclaimed a secular state. The remaining Christians here simply removed the plaster. The artwork had been preserved far better than if it had been left exposed. I believe you Americans would refer to that as the law of unintended consequences."
Indeed.
Lang and Gurt watched the old man walk away, stopping to bless all who wished it.
"How long the translation takes does not matter while the policeman holds our passports," she observed.
"That," Lang said, "is why our next stop is the American consulate. Let's see if we can bring a little pressure on Inspector Aziz."
Buyukada Princes' Islands
At the Same Time
Inspector Aziz normally didn't read the routine daily reports of police activity, but this one had caught his attention.
Last night there had been two seemingly unrelated incidents: A young hoodlum had tried to snatch the purse of a tourist in the Grand Bazaar. By the time the policeman had reached the trouble spot, the perpetrator had a very sore groin among other possible injuries. One of his associates had a bloody nose. Both inflicted by the woman, not her male companion. The woman, tall and blonde, spoke English with a decided accent. The man was American. The young thugs got away but, in the reporting officer's opinion, had been duly punished anyway.
A weak excuse for not doing his job, but that was some other inspector's problem.
An hour or so later, a couple fitting the same description had disrupted the evening prayers at the nearby Nuruosmaniye Mosque. At the same time, a gang of young men had entered the mosque, apparently in pursuit of the couple. The couple had escaped both the infuriated worshipers and the band of street criminals.
A lot of guesswork rather than police work but interesting. The man he had assigned to keep watch on Reilly and the woman had reported nothing unusual other than the fact they had spotted him, thereby rendering his surveillance useless and he had therefore gone home to dinner. Aziz would make sure the next assignment for that fool would be chasing pickpockets in the narrow confines of the Spice Bazaar.
He smiled. Disturbing the peace as well as disrupting a religious assembly were petty crimes but crimes nonetheless. Just cause for investigation and interrogation. He ran a finger across his mustache. There was no doubt in Aziz's mind who the couple were. As was so often the case, the female would appear to be deadlier than the male. But Interpol had no record of her. The very fact a woman of such capabilities had left no paper trail suggested a number of interesting possibilities. One did not naturally come by the ability to turn an opponent's size and weight against him. Such things were taught, taught by the military, police and intelligence services.
The latter raised some very interesting questions. Turkey's borders with Syria, Iran, Iraq and Russia had made the country a center for espionage for the last three decades. Could it be that Aziz was about to uncover something of international significance? He had no idea what. But did it matter as long as he received the credit?
He had every right to have Reilly and the woman detained and questioned about the affair at the mosque. Perhaps he would discover exactly what their business in Turkey might be. Possibly he would uncover something that would finally get him back across the Sea of Marmara. Besides, a pair of sore balls and a bloody nose were the least of the problems they might cause. Turkey, like other countries wedged between conflicting political structures, had learned spies had a genetic disregard of the laws of their host country.
He reached across the desk and began to shuffle papers. He had written down the name and address of the hotel that had called about admitting them without passports.
Side Hotel and Pension
Thirty Minutes Later
Gurt and Lang had returned to their hotel to leave their weapons. The security level at American embassies and consulates in this part of the world would surely have detected firearms and neither wanted to have to explain why they were armed.
Gurt was gazing out of the window. "We will not make it to the consulate, I think."
Lang was emerging from the bathroom where he had taped one gun under the sink. The other he had stuck to the bottom of a drawer. The popularity of The Godfather had made underneath the toilet tank top the first place anyone looked.
"Why not?"
"There are two police cars outside."
With perfect timing, there was a frame-rattling knock on the door.
Lang opened up and looked into the faces of two officers. The flaps on their holsters were undone as if they expected trouble.
Lang bowed deeply, gesturing. "Do come in, gentlemen. It was so very kind of Inspector Aziz to send two men to return our passports."
Neither seemed amused.
"Come with us," one said gruffly, peering past Lang into the room.
Lang continued the charade, giving Gurt time to make sure there was no scrap of tape, no clue something had recently been concealed. "Oh, that won't be necessary. He doesn't have to return them in person. Just drop them off at the front desk."
Cops are not known for their sense of humor and these two were no exception. The one who had spoken grabbed the front of Lang's shirt. "I said, come with us."
As close as the two stood to each other, it would have been relatively easy to disable and disarm both. That, however, wasn't going to get the passports back or make the inspector any more cooperative.
Lang held up his hands, a gesture of submission. "OK, OK! I'm coming."
They drew the attention of the three or four people lounging in the lobby/reception area as they were herded through and stuffed into the backseats of different police cars, separated from the front by the wire mesh common to law enforcement vehicles. One behind the other, they descended to the Golden Horn, crossed the Galata Bridge and entered Istanbul's commercial center, Beyoglu. Dominated by the Galata Tower at its highest point, it had been first settled by Genoese traders and merchants in the thirteenth century, soon to be followed by Jews fleeing the Spanish Inquisition, Arabs, Greeks and Armenians. It was also here that the European powers established embassies to further trade with the Ottoman Empire. Except for the fourteenth-century tower, the area could have been the center of any modern city.
None of this interested Lang as much as their possible destination.
Both police cars stopped in front of a building distinguished only by the white star and crescent on a field of red, the Turkish flag. Inside, they were subjected to inspection by a metal-detecting wand. It chirped merrily at Lang's watch, belt buckle and the change in his pocket. The offending items removed, it beeped again, at what Lang could not guess. The attendant seemed satisfied. They were marched up a staircase carpeted with a runner showing more thread than weave. At the end of a hall, the two policeman stopped and knocked on a door. Inside, Inspector Aziz sat behind a scarred and dented metal desk whose twins could be found in any police station Lang had ever visited. On its surface was a thin manila folder. On top were the passports. At his elbow, a cracked cup was filled with cigarette butts next to a rotary phone. There was no other furniture in the room other than the chair the inspector occupied. From the total absence of personal effects, Lang gathered the inspector only had temporary use of this office.
Aziz nodded and the two policemen stepped outside, closing the door behind them.
The Turkish policeman said nothing, staring first at Gurt, then Lang. It was a basic interrogation technique, one intended to unnerve the subject. Lang made a conscious effort not to shift his weight as he stood there, looking out of the single window behind the desk. The view was of a brick wall.
Realizing his ploy wasn't working, Aziz moved to another. He opened the file and pretended to read.
"You have an interesting record, Mr. Reilly. Suspicion of a couple of homicides in London… Definitely killed a man there a few months ago."
Lang was not surprised. The price of the information age was the death of privacy. He was sure the inspector had entered his name into any number of crime-reporting systems. "The English haven't seen fit to detain me."
The Turk's brown eyes flicked up from the paper. "Presumption of innocence, fair play and all that, I suppose." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop. "Here in Turkey, our laws are quite different. You may be detained with or without such suspicions."
"I'll bear that in mind before I commit any crime in Turkey."
Aziz turned his attention to Gurt. "And you, Ms. Fuchs, how is it you have an American passport, but your primary language is not English? Surely you must be able to speak English to be an American."
"Try calling customer service at any public utility," Lang said.
Aziz gave him a glare that could have burned the wallpaper had there been any. "Well?"
"I was born in Germany," Gurt said, leaning forward and resting her hands on the desk.
It was a natural gesture but one that showed monumental cleavage. Aziz was clearly fighting to keep his eyes on her face.
"East Germany," she continued, appearing oblivious to the conflict between the policeman's eyes and his professionalism. "I fled to West Germany a few years before the wall came down. I got a job with an American company…"
This could be shaky ground, Lang thought. They had no way to know how much the inspector had learned. It was a safe bet that Gurt's employment with the agency wasn't to be found by browsing international police sites. Still, some long-ago cover story, some forgotten identity might jump up, alerting this detective to some perceived inconsistency in her story.
Aziz managed to shift his gaze to Lang. "And last night at the Grand Bazaar?"
"A couple of young men attacked us. One of your officers witnessed the whole thing."
Aziz ran his index finger across his mustache as he turned to Gurt, struggling to keep his eyes above the neckline of her blouse. "So I heard. Just where did you learn to defend yourself like that?"
Gurt, still leaning over the desk to the man's distraction said, "It gives good exercise to join the many judo classes in the United States."
"And in these classes, they teach you to disrupt religious services?"
Gurt and Lang exchanged bewildered looks.
"I'm not sure we know what you're talking about, Inspector," Lang finally said.
The policeman glared first at him then at Gurt. "Do you deny you entered the Nuruosmaniye Mosque during prayers last night?"
Lang shrugged. "Is it a crime to enter a mosque?"
"It is if you in any way interfere with worship."
Lang shook his head. "We know nothing about any disruption of any mosque. Unless you have evidence to the contrary…"
Aziz smiled. "We are not in the United States, Mr. Reilly. As I think I mentioned, I can hold you on suspicion."
"Then you better call the consulate and tell them we won't be coming," Lang bluffed.
"Consulate?" For the first time the inspector seemed less that certain of what he was doing.
"The American consulate," Lang continued. "We were on our way there when your men showed up. We were going to see what our government could do about your taking our passports on a mere whim."
Aziz's eyes darted from one to the other. His computer search had revealed not only Reilly's potential criminal past but also that he was a very rich individual, head of an international charitable foundation. The rich were usually well connected. The last thing he needed was to cause an international incident. He would not only never get off Buyukada, he might well wind up shoveling horse manure from the roads there.
Best not to let these infidels see his indecision. "I remind you, Mr. Reilly, you are in my country, not yours. I will return your passports when my investigation is complete."
"Investigation of what, some disturbance in a mosque?"
"We know nothing about any mosque," Gurt chimed in, drawing the inspector's eyes back to her.
Had another button on her blouse come undone?
The inspector made a decision.
"Go to your consulate, then. I will find witnesses to the incident in question. If they cannot identify you, your passports will be returned."
"In the meantime, we're free to go?" Lang asked.
Aziz sneered. "You will not go far without your papers."
He was answering the ring of the phone as they left.
Gurt and Lang tried not to hurry down the hall or stairs. Once outside, they dashed to the first cab they could find.
Lang handed the driver a wad of Turkish lira. "There's more if you can get us to the Side Hotel in a hurry. A big hurry."
Once underway, Gurt was rebuttoning her blouse as she spoke. "Once we get our, er, possessions, where do we go?"
"The airport and the first flight out of Turkey."
"We can do this before he finds out you slipped the passports off the desk while he was staring down my shirt?"
"You're right. The airport is the first place he'll look. I don't understand why the man is so interested in us in the first place and I don't want to stick around long enough to find out."
They were silent for a second or so before Gurt said, "The agency has perhaps a safe house here. A favor or two is owed me at the Frankfurt office."
She produced a BlackBerry and keyed in a series of numbers.
As if in response, Lang's BlackBerry buzzed. He sighed when he saw his office number. He was afraid to guess what Home Depot might have left on his doorstep this time.
"OK, Sara, what got delivered now?"
"Lang? I wasn't calling about that. I wanted to remind you, you've got a preliminary hearing in Macon day after tomorrow."
"Macon?"
"Macon. Federal court. Larry Henderson. A narcotics charge, y'know? Like the ones you said you'd never take. The one case in which you don't have a medical leave of absence."
"I'll be there."
But first he had to get out of Istanbul.
Piazza dei Cavalleri di Malta
Aventine Hill
Rome
At the Same Time
The room was dark. Heavy curtains blocked the bright sunshine of a summer day in Rome. The only light came from the monitor of a computer, tinting the faces of the two men in front of it a bluish color.
"He has disappeared," the younger of the two said. "Or at least neither he nor the woman have submitted their passports to register in any hotel."
The older man was scanning a list of names on the screen. "Or they are using false papers. Have you checked to see if they are perhaps staying at the monastery?"
The younger shrugged. "The monastery, too, must register its guests."
"What about the airport?" "No airline has booked a flight for them." The older man shook his head. "What do you suggest?"
"We believe he came to Istanbul to have the book translated by someone who can read the ancient Greek. That is what led us to keep watch on the island where the monastery is located…"
"And we had an incompetent to do the most important task this order has faced in centuries!" the other man snorted.
"Grand Master, by the very nature of our order, men who are skilled at such work would be excluded."
The older man put a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder. "You are right as usual, Antonio. Please continue."
"Since Reilly and the woman were not on the island long enough for a full translation, they must be planning to return. This time I have gone outside the order to procure the service we need. The man is a professional."
"One outside the order is not bound to silence about our affairs."
"True, Grand Master. This man, the one waiting near the monastery for Reilly s return, believes he is being paid by a certain organization from Sicily."
The older man gave a grim smile. "You have done well. Let us hope he succeeds."
United States Consulate
Mesrutiyet Cad 104-108 Tepebasi
Istanbul
Thirty Minutes Later
Gurt had shown her creds to the marine guards, enabling she and Lang to bypass the building's metal detectors after all. Lang was grateful. He was well aware of the spools of red tape that would have been required to explain the weapons they had retrieved from the hotel as they departed. She gave a name to a receptionist and they were ushered to an elevator.
Jim Hartwell operated under the title of assistant trade attaché, the somewhat shopworn label given the agency's local chief of station. His status meant he had been around a long time, certainly during those years when Lang had been married to Dawn and out of touch with the covert world shared by Gurt and Hartwell What else they might have shared was none of Lang's business. It was clear he had a thing for her. Whether he had lusted from afar or a lot closer than Lang would like to think was going to remain a mystery.
Lang waited patiently while the agency man and Gurt swapped news about mutual acquaintances and reminisced about past assignments. The tailored Italian summer-weight wool suit, the currently popular solid-color power tie and handmade wingtips that had to have come from Milan cost more than a month's pay for a chief of station in anyplace other than a major embassy. His hair was expensively cut and streaked with silver in just the right places. His teeth, which he displayed often, could have served as a commendation for any orthodontist. Lang doubted he had gotten his tan from being outdoors. His appearance, his diction, told Lang Hartwell was one more rich kid who had sat down in the lap of luxury at birth and whose family had accurately assessed his abilities and potential for damage to the family business. Like so many wealthy American dynasties, they had either successfully persuaded or threatened him into "public service," an euphemism for whatever available government job that did not entail sweat or dirty fingernails. If he managed to be something other than a total disaster, politics would be the next step.
As the preliminary pleasantries drew to a conclusion, Lang decided he didn't like Jim Hartwell very much.
Then Gurt outlined the purpose of the visit.
Hartwell tapped his teeth with the stem of a briar that looked well used despite the no smoking signs that adorned every American government outpost from Abu Dhabi to Zwolle.
If there was an American outpost in Zwolle.
"Let me get this straight," the agency man said, staring out of the window of his second-floor office. "You want me to arrange for you both to get out of Turkey by diplomatic means, never mind that Turkey is an important ally of the United States"
"It is a particular police inspector that is no ally," Gurt said.
"Getting people out of places is something your employer routinely does," Lang added, "even when they aren't particularly eager to leave"
Hartwell shot him a glance. "Not as routinely as you think. We got burned a couple of years ago."
He referred to an incident when a suspected Muslim extremist had literally been snatched off the streets of Milan for interrogation in Egypt, where the definition of torture was somewhat looser than in Europe. An outraged Italian government had indicted in absentia the agency personnel suspected. Only the US's refusal to extradite had prevented a very embarrassing trial.
"You will not do it?" Gurt asked.
"I didn't say that. I'd have to get authorization."
No matter what branch of government, buck passing was the standard credo.
"In Belgrade I did not wait for authorization," Gurt said.
Lang suppressed the urge to ask what had happened in the Yugoslavian capital. He was fairly certain he wouldn't like the answer anyway.
Hartwell studied his manicure. "You're asking me to ride my ass."
"As did I."
Apparently satisfied with cuticle depth and nail length, Hartwell turned his attention to a cluster of diplomas on the wall, all from smaller Ivy League schools.
Lang felt a growing annoyance. He started to say something and clamped his jaw shut. Was he giving way to an irrational emotion because he had had to watch Gurt utilize her sexuality on the Turkish cop and now she was doing the same thing, albeit in a different way, with this empty suit who might be a former lover? Or was it because there had been a time when a chief of station was answerable to nobody below the director, a congressional investigating committee or, occasionally, God? Those days had disappeared with the Berlin Wall. Feather merchants had replaced decision makers. Small wonder tiny nations like Bosnia or North Korea took delight in sticking a thumb in the eye of the American eagle. Small nations or those of the Middle East that actually were no more than tribes with flags.
Hartwell slapped an open palm down on the desktop with a whack that made Lang forget his irritation.
"I've got a way, I think."
There was a brief silence as though he were awaiting applause for what might be his first idea in a long time.
"There's a marine helicopter that leaves almost every day for the embassy in Ankara, diplomatic mission carrying sensitive papers and the like. I might be able to get you space on it."
"Last time I looked, Ankara was still in Turkey," Lang drawled.
Hartwell glared at him, then smiled, bearing those magnificent choppers again. "There's international service from Ankara."
"To where, Kabul or Islamabad? We need to get to someplace where there's service to the US."
Hartwell, still smiling, shrugged. "Best I can do."
Gurt, anticipating Lang's reaction, held out a restraining hand. "Cannot the Gulfstream land in Ankara?"
"Gulfstream?" Hartwell asked, chagrined to suddenly realize he might be dealing with someone important.
The Gulfstream, of course.
Lang had allowed himself the luxury of being too busy disliking the man to think clearly. He stood and took the BlackBerry from his pocket. "Is there anyplace I can have a private conversation?"
Coming around his desk, Hartwell crossed the room, opening a door that had blended so well with the paneling Lang had not noticed it.
"Our conference room. Soundproof, swept daily," he said proudly.
In a few minutes, Lang returned. "I forgot. The plane is in Damascus. We're building a couple of children's hospitals there. Just tell me what time."
Hartwell picked up a phone on his desk, muttered into it and said, "In about two hours."
Lang did some geographical calculations. "That should work."
"One more thing," Gurt announced sweetly. "A very special favor for an old friend."
Hartwell suddenly looked as if his lunch had disagreed with him. "I thought…"
"Just a truly little thing." Gurt was holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "We need to stop at the monastery on the Princes' Islands. They have something very important for us to pick up."
The agency man looked from Gurt to Lang and back again, just now realizing they had agreed to keep this part of the agenda for last. "Impossible! This isn't the States where helicopters fly pretty much where they want. We have to clear every flight days ahead of time. Besides, like most European countries, helicopters are restricted over certain areas. I can't…"
Gurt clucked her sympathy. "It does me so sad, to think that everyone in the agency will hear about Belgrade. It is a very amusing story."
Not to Hartwell. Lang watched eyes grow as the man inhaled deeply. The effect was like a balloon being overinflated. No doubt he was seeing a political career slosh 'round the bowl and down the hole.
"You wouldn't…" he finally gasped. "I mean, it's been so long."
"Still funny," Gurt insisted. "I can now see you. When…"
Hartwell held both hands up, surrendering. "All right, all right! I'll think of some diplomatic reason…"
Minutes later, Lang and Gurt were sitting in what might have been a lobby had it been somewhere else, waiting for their flight.
"OK," Lang said, now fairly certain whatever had happened in Belgrade had comic rather than sexual overtones. That, of course, did not exclude the possibilities of the latter in some other locale. "What happened?"
Gurt made a sound that could have been a laugh or a snort. "That would be telling."
Buyukada Princes' Islands
At the Same Time
Levanto had no idea how his new client had done it. In fact, he had only an unconfirmed suspicion who his client might be. All he knew was that a man he had never seen before had appeared at the gates of Levanto's summer villa, the one in the hills above Palermo, with an introduction from Levanto's last client and a briefcase. The briefcase contained a number of interesting items: a Turkish passport, a ticket for connecting flights from Istanbul back to Palermo, a map and, most important, three quarters of a million euro in fifties and hundreds.
By the nature of his profession, Levanto dealt exclusively in cash but usually half before, half after the job was complete. The stranger was perfectly willing not only to front all the money but to ensure that the tools of Levanto's trade arrived.
This latter promise made Levanto a little uneasy. The Walther WA 2000 was fragile. Its extreme accuracy, perhaps the best in the world, did not tolerate abuse well. One hard jolt, a few minutes exposure to blowing dirt or grit and the barrel could be off a thousandth of a centimeter or the delicate telescopic sight skewed less than that or the chamber's seal compromised. Either way, the tiniest misalignment deprived the weapon of its accuracy of nearly a mile. That was why it was generally shunned by military snipers.
The rifle weighed over eighteen pounds. That and its distinctive bullpup configuration made it difficult to conceal from even the most casual baggage inspectors. Plus Levanto would not dare let the handpicked.30-caliber Winchester magnum ammunition out of his sight. An abrupt change in, temperature or humidity could cause alterations in the casing so minuscule as to be visible only under a microscope but big enough to make several yards' difference in accuracy. In Levanto's business there was no substitute or compromise. The bullet either hit the target in the exact place intended at a bone-shattering 800 mps or the shooter was just one more amateur who was better off hunting wild animals or other targets not likely to shoot back.
Levanto customarily stalked his targets, noting routines and schedules. That way he could choose the optimum time and place to do the job. Not on this assignment.
He had declined the offer of a private jet to Istanbul, preferring to make his own travel arrangements using one of the many passports from a library of documents he had accumulated. Caution was job one. He had then taken a late-night boat ride to what he had guessed was an island. The truly peculiar feature of the whole trip was the horse-and-buggy ride to a small cottage. Daylight revealed the house was between a copse of trees and a cliff with a view of the ocean. On the other side of the trees was what looked like a church. Whatever it was, there was an unobstructed view of the front entrance from the cottage's second-story window.
From the other side of the room, he could see the ocean. The two views were the most attractive part. The rest of the chamber consisted of a double bed and a few pine pieces. Against one wail was an iron staircase that, Levanto guessed, led those who wished to enjoy the sun in privacy of the flat roof.
Less than a kilometer to the church. Child's play. The only difficulty was the breeze from the water: it tended to shift abruptly. Even the slightest change in direction or velocity could affect accuracy. Fortunately, the distance from the upstairs window to the church's entrance was so short a slight variation in wind would present far less of a variable than a much longer shot.
A man would come to this church in the next few days, a man who could be recognized from several photographs showing him on a street, getting out of a cab, talking to a tall blonde woman. Levanto guessed the man had been unaware the snapshots were being taken.
Once the job was complete, Levanto was to simply walk out of the house to where a tethered horse would be already harnessed to a wagon. He would leave the rifle. It was both untraceable and replaceable. He was left alone to set the rifle's bipod and adjust the telescopic sight. There was nothing more to do than wait and Levanto was a master at waiting.
Sea of Marmara
Two Hours Later
The earphones did only a modest job of filtering out the noise of the Sikorsky H-60K's rotors. Lang was uncertain if the helicopter was in its Black Hawk or Seahawk configuration, but he recognized the aircraft as the US military's workhorse medium transport chopper of the 1970s through the '90s. Its age showed. The metal bench seats that ran down both sides had been polished to a gloss by generations of rear ends. Although not a pilot, Lang recognized the avionics up front were long outdated. He didn't want to think about the hours on airframe, engine or rotor vanes. All in all, the craft exemplified the Marine Corps' frequent complaint that the equipment it received was that no longer wanted by the army or navy.
Below, the water was a cerulean blue, its surface marred only by creamy arrows, wakes of ferries shuttling between mainland and islands. Lang had trouble relaxing enough to sleep on airplanes. Helicopters frightened him. Things that flew were supposed to have wings, right? No one could convince him that the rotor blades served both as wing and propeller. It just wasn't natural.
His anxiety abated slightly as good, solid terra firma slipped beneath the aircraft.
Across from him, Gurt hardly noticed the slight turbulence caused by the difference in temperatures between land and sea. She didn't even look up from the week-old copy of USA Today she had found somewhere. Lang didn't need the cautionary instructions to fasten his seat belt that came through the headset that made onboard communications possible without screaming. He had never removed it. As the craft settled to the round, Lang was trying to squelch his envy. How could she be so serene in the face of the total disregard for the laws of nature shown by helicopters?
The crew were equally indifferent. The pilot and copilot, wearing visored helmets, had obviously become inured to this breach of the law of gravity. The courier, a marine sergeant with webbed gun belt and a battered briefcase chained to his arm, looked bored as did the similarly armed escort beside him.
The world's statesmen thought with Descartes-like logic: I am a diplomat; therefore my communications are important. Important enough to require four marines and a helicopter that probably gobbled a thousand or so dollars an hour of taxpayer money, all to deliver documents that likely had the same security needs as yesterday's comic pages.
And decidedly less amusement value.
Slightly less than a kilometer away, Levanto slipped behind the stationary rifle mounted on a table just inside the window. He could see the markings on the helicopter easily, but he peered through the scope to make sure.
United States Marines?
Nobody had mentioned a helicopter to him, much less one of a military nature. He had no intent of reneging on a deal made; it would be the end of his business. But he certainly would have increased his price had he known the job involved shooting at US Marines. He could only hope the first bullet would be the only one necessary and he would have time to escape amid the ensuing confusion.
He began to inhale deeply in preparation for that long instant during which he would hold his, breath, the moment he squeezed the big Walther's trigger.
Then he stopped in midbreath.
The helicopter was discharging its passenger or passengers, if that was what it was doing, from the side facing the church.
The side he couldn't see!
Raising his face from the scope, he looked around the church for some place of concealment from which he could fire. Years of practice made him calm. There was always an alternate possibility and only amateurs acted in haste. He had not survived in this business by letting changing circumstance lead to panic. It would take him at least five minutes or so to set up and stabilize his weapon and reset the telescopic sight even if he could find a suitably level surface. Any such location toward the church would increase the distance to where the horse and wagon were supposedly waiting. No matter: a contract was a contract and his reputation for fulfilling each would be irreparably damaged if he didn't perform this one.
But he couldn't shoot through the damnable aircraft even if he could see his target. And there were no topographically acceptable places to shoot from without time for serious readjustment of the sight. Even then, he had no guarantee his designated target was on board. He might well be risking exposing himself for nothing.
The rotors began to spool down. The helicopter was going to remain on the ground. At least for a few minutes.
That gave Levanto an idea.
Ducking by reflex to avoid the breeze created by the slowing blades, Lang and Gurt stepped to the door of the monastery, where a group of openmouthed monks stared as though they were watching a spaceship land. Behind them, Lang could see the patriarch.
"I welcome you to our home," the prelate said, raising his voice above the dying engine whine, "though I never expected such a, er, sensational arrival. If you will come with me…"
They walked in the shadows seeping across the cloister and entered the building on the far side. Again, the whiff of roses. The patriarch opened an elaborately carved wooden
door and ushered them inside. They were standing in an office that could have been anywhere, another anachronism considering where they were.
The patriarch stepped behind a battered desk and handed Lang two sheaves of paper. "If you have a moment, I would like to explain."
"Please."
The churchman extended one of the packets. "There are two books of James. The first, of which parts of several copies exist, is called the Protoevangelium. It closely follows the gospels of Matthew and Luke. I suspect the early church fathers discarded it when they were compiling the New Testament simply because it added little beside the fact its author showed a surprising ignorance of Palestinian geography and Jewish customs. It is likely the creation of someone who was neither an eyewitness nor had access to reliable tradition. That is not what you gave me to translate."
Lang waited, trying not to show his impatience.
"The other, what you have, is known as the Apocryphon of James, a postresurrection conversation between Our Lord, James and Peter. It also exists in various fragments in several languages. Since at least the first part was supposedly written by James, the original would have been in Aramaic, later translated into Greek with perhaps a Hebrew version in between. The one you have is the first complete copy, certainly the only one I know of that contains formerly missing lines. I took the freedom, er, liberty of noting those for you." He handed over the second bunch of papers. "I fear there are those who might cause you trouble for what those lines contain."
Tell me about it.
Gurt started to say something and thought better of it, edging toward the door. "We have a hurry to get to…"
The patriarch smiled. "Americans are always in a hurry, perhaps so is the whole modern world."
Lang tucked the papers into his belt. "How much do we owe you for your time in translating these?"
The man seemed genuinely surprised. "Owe? As a debt? I owe you for allowing me to see a copy of such rare documents, so rare I suspect I will hear much about them soon." He paused a moment. "Of course, if you wish to make a donation to the monastery…"
Levanto reached the top of the staircase and pushed gently against the trapdoor to the roof.
Stuck!
He shoved harder with the same result.
Cursing softly in Sicilian Italian, he scampered back down the stairs and glanced around the room for a tool. The butt of the Walther was the obvious choice, but to use it to batter the stubborn hinges of the door to the roof would be to risk damage to the delicate sight and firing mechanism.
His eyes fell on a pair of pine chairs with woven reed seats. In a step, he had one of them by a leg, smashing it against the floor. All but the leg he held splintered.
Mounting the staircase again, he jabbed the chair leg against the recalcitrant trapdoor. His effort was rewarded when one of the boards came loose, then another.
Lang and Gurt were crossing the cloister again, accompanied by the patriarch. Although every instinct told him to hurry, Lang could not have enunciated a rational reason to do so. The Gulfstream would be waiting in Ankara and they would be out of Turkey before Inspector Aziz knew they had left Istanbul. Experience, though, had taught him that not only was he who hesitated lost, he was usually terminally fucked as well.
Fidgeting, he consulted his watch as the kind old man explained the Bible story depicted in a panel of mosaics. The cleric was clearly taking delight in delivering a tour of the premises. Gurt was enjoying it, too, despite her earlier inclination to make haste. Lang's Southern rearing made him loath to appear rude by cutting the patriarch short. He still could not have given a reason for his urge to hurry other than a belief in the quote from a brilliant if semiliterate Confederate general that it was best to git while the gittin' was good.
Levanto used the chair leg to pry open the remaining parts of the trapdoor. He waited cautiously to make sure the noise had attracted no attention before he pulled himself up. A second later, he was on the roof. A pair of folding lounge chairs and a plastic table confirmed his guess the place was used to take in the sun. More important, he could now see over the helicopter and into the space between it and the church's entrance. When the passengers returned to depart, he would have a very brief gap in which they would be in view. The question now was whether it would be enough time to sight the rifle in time and confirm the chopper's passenger was the intended target.
It would be close but possible.
Gurt and the patriarch stood just inside the doorway as he explained something to her. Lang waited impatiently behind. The helicopter pilot, seeing them, turned over the starter and the rotor began a slow circle.
Gurt finished the conversation and preceded Lang outside as the rotor's blades blurred and the ship became light on its skids.
Through the scope, Levanto could see there were actually two passengers; a man and a woman. Avoiding the temptation to let his view linger a little longer on the woman, a tall and very shapely blonde, he switched to her male companion and smiled. There was no doubt: he was looking at the man in the photographs.
Obligingly, the target stopped long enough to say something to someone behind him, someone Levanto could not see. Levanto used perhaps a tenth of a second of the unexpected time to make a minor adjustment to the scope to compensate for the increased wind on the rooftop and estimate the prop wash from the blades. He inhaled deeply, exhaling and beginning a slow, gentle squeeze of the trigger.
Almost at exactly the same time as the Walthers recoil thumped against Levanto's shoulder, something whirled across the scope, something large and blurred. Without thought, he chambered another round.
Lang was never quite sure of the exact following sequence. Gurt climbed aboard with him a few feet behind. There was a clang of metal on metal, the unmistakable whip crack of a rifle and the whine of a ricocheting bullet that buzzed past Lang's head like a hungry mosquito. By reaction rather than plan, he lunged for the aircraft's open door, colliding with the marine escort who was fumbling with the holster on his webbed belt. Both men tumbled to the floor as the ship lifted off.
Lang struggled uncertainly to his feet. He was about to wonder if any damage had been done to injuries still healing when the pilot's head dissolved, splattering blood and brain tissue across the windscreen and cockpit.
It was unlikely Lang would forget any of what happened next, but what stood out was the calm assurance with which the copilot grasped the controls in front of him with one hand while wiping the gore from his helmet's visor with the other. Use of this ship as a messenger service might be wasting the taxpayers' money, but the man's piloting skill was worth every dime.
The Black Hawk/Seahawk was vibrating slightly as it banked sharply left and climbed. Holding on to a series of overhead straps that reminded him of a New York subway car, Lang made his way forward.
He had not had time to put on the headset. "What…?" he screamed at the copilot's back.
The copilot's answer was to hold up a hand, signaling to stand by. Lang guessed he was on the radio, seeking instructions from the consulate.
When he had finished, he turned slightly in his seat, pushing the boom mike away to speak to Lang. "Dunno. Somebody took a shot through the rotors before shootin' the lieutenant." He pointed to a bank of incomprehensible dials and gauges. "Doesn't look like he hit a vein, the hydraulics that angle the blades so we can control the ship. He did take a nick outta one of the blades, though. That's what's causing the vibration. I'm gonna try to get the lieutenant to the nearest hospital."
Lang glanced at the blood-soaked corpse reclining in the pilot's seat. He caught himself before saying something to the effect the lieutenant was in no hurry. Instead, he waited for this thing to shake itself into pieces in midair.
Levanto cursed for the second time in less than thirty minutes. Unbelievable! His first shot had been deflected by the helicopter's rotor blades. By the time he had worked the rifle's bolt and recentered the sight, moves he had practiced hundreds of times, he knew he had less than a good chance of hitting the pilot as the ship lifted into the air. He had, though. And with a killing shot. Yet the helicopter had not spun out of control as he had anticipated. He had not seen a copilot but clearly someone had taken charge quickly despite what was possibly the best shot of Levanto's career, a feat he suspected his client would not fully appreciate.
For an instant, he contemplated a third try, one for the helicopter's engine. His discipline overrode his anger. At this range, such an attempt would serve more to divulge his location than to bring the chopper down. Best he keep his rendezvous with the horse and wagon.
To Lang, the trip back seemed much shorter than the outbound leg. He did, however, have time to think. Perhaps too much time. Despite the parts of the radio conversation he could hear and the consensus of the three remaining marines, he was certain this was not a terrorist plot to kill the pilot in an attempt to intercept communications between the consulate in Istanbul and the embassy in Ankara. Muslim jihadists had bigger goats to fry, more important infidels to kill. Or just more important than a marine lieutenant. And there were certainly more significant messages to intercept and bigger things to blow up than a single helicopter. Like schools, churches and other places the innocent might gather.
All in the name of peace, Islam and their Prophet.
No, the bullet that had nicked the rotor blade had been meant for him.
The thought wasn't exactly self-flattery. Or comforting.
A glance forward showed splatters of red congealing into mud brown. That could just as easily have been his blood, his brains. Although this wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, he felt the sourness rising in his throat. Because the bullet had been meant for him or because it had found someone else, he could not have said.
In what seemed like seconds, the helicopter was dropping onto a pad on top of what Lang assumed was a hospital, an impression enforced by the crew of white-clad men surrounding a gurney. They removed the lieutenant under the cocked and ready weapons of the remaining crew. While everyone else was attending to the mortally wounded officer, Lang took Gurt's arm, leading her away from the group.
"What?"
"Get your bag. We're leaving."
"Leaving?"
"There're always taxis around hospitals. One can drive us to Ankara."
"Why did we not do that before?"
"Because the police were watching us. There was good chance they would have followed a cab, stopped us before we got far. I doubt they've had time to figure out where we are now."
"Once the inspector finds we have left the city, the police will question cab drivers until they find the one who has driven us to Ankara."
"By that time, we'll be halfway home."