by Gregg Loomis
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.
XIII.
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 a
s 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."
XIV.
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 lik
e 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."
XV.
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.