The Coptic Secret (26 page)

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."

IX.

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!"