The ferryboat steamed north at a comfortable clip, easing past the hilly skyline of Istanbul under a clear blue sky. The vessel soon passed under the Bosphorus Bridge and later the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, both towering suspension bridges that rose high above the waterway. Pitt and Loren sipped hot tea while surveying the neighboring boat traffic and the hillside architecture. The crowded shoreline slowly receded into a line of stately waterfront mansions, diplomatic missions, and former palaces that resided against a green forested backdrop.
The ferry made several leisurely port stops before approaching almost within sight of the Black Sea.
“Care to go up to the top deck for a better view?” Pitt asked.
Loren shook her head. “Looks too breezy for me. How about another tea instead?”
Pitt duly agreed and walked over to a small café and ordered two more black teas. Had they climbed to the top deck, Pitt might have observed the small speedboat carrying three men that raced up the strait toward the ferryboat.
The ferry soon turned toward the European shore and docked beside a pair of smaller car ferries at the Port of Sariyer. An old fishing village, Sariyer still exuded the historic Turkish charm of many upper Bosphorus havens that were slowly being overrun with affluent retirees.
“There are supposed to be some good seafood restaurants here,” Loren said, reading from a tour book. “How about we get off for lunch?”
Pitt agreed, and they soon joined a throng of sightseers clogging the gangway to exit the ship. The dock was near the base of a large hill, with the town spread along shoreline flats to their right. The town’s main road fed into a small waterfront park to their left, which caught Pitt’s eye when an old Citroën Traction Avant motored onto the grassy field.
They walked through a small fish market, observing a fresh catch of sea bass being unloaded from a small fishing boat. Ambling past a row of competing seafood restaurants, they selected a small waterfront café at the end of the block. A spry waitress with long black hair seated them at a patio table along the water’s edge, then quickly covered their table with meze, small appetizer portions of various Turkish dishes.
“You have to try the calamari,” Loren said, shoving a rubbery blob into Pitt’s mouth.
Pitt playfully crunched one of her fingers with his teeth. “A nice match with the white cheese,” he replied after swallowing the fried squid.
They enjoyed a leisurely meal, watching the sea traffic maneuvering down the strait, along with the tourists bustling through the adjoining restaurants. Finishing their seafood dishes, Pitt was reaching for a glass of water when Loren suddenly clutched his arm.
“Swallow a bone?” he asked, noting a tight-lipped grimace on her face.
Loren slowly shook her head as she released her grip. “There’s a man standing outside the door. He was one of the men in the van last night.”
Pitt took a drink from his water glass, casually turning his head toward the café’s front door. Outside the entrance, he could see a brown-skinned man in a blue shirt milling about the door. He had turned toward the street, obscuring his face from Pitt.
“Are you certain?” Pitt asked.
Loren saw the man steal a quick glance through the window before turning away again. She looked at her husband with fear in her eyes and nodded.
“I recognize his eyes,” she said.
Pitt thought the profile looked familiar, and Loren’s reaction convinced him she was right. It had to be the man Pitt had slugged in the back of the van.
“How could they have tracked us here?” she asked, slightly hoarse.
“We were the last ones on the boat, but they must have been close enough to see us board,” Pitt reasoned. “They probably followed in another boat. It wouldn’t have taken long to scout the restaurants near the ferry dock.”
Though he kept a calm demeanor, Pitt felt a deep uneasiness over the safety of his wife. The Topkapi thieves had proven last night that they weren’t afraid to murder. If they had taken the trouble to track them down, it could be for only one reason—retaliation for disrupting the burglary. The threat by the woman in the cistern suddenly didn’t sound so hollow.
The café’s waitress appeared and, while clearing away their lunch dishes, asked if they wanted dessert. Loren started to shake her head, but Pitt spoke up.
“Yes, indeed. Two coffees and two orders of your baklava, please.”
As the waitress scurried back to the kitchen, Loren admonished Pitt.
“I can’t eat any more. Especially not now,” she added, glaring toward the front door.
“Dessert is for him, not us,” he replied quietly. “Make a show of heading for the restroom, then wait for me by the kitchen.”
Loren responded immediately, pretending to whisper in Pitt’s ear, then slowly rising and moving down a short hall that led to both the kitchen and restrooms. Pitt noted the man at the door stiffen slightly as he observed her movement, then relaxed when the waitress delivered the coffee and dessert to the table. Pitt surreptitiously slipped a stack of Turkish lira on the table, then poked a fork into the thick slab of baklava. Taking a peek toward the door, he saw the blue-shirted man turn again toward the street. Pitt dropped his fork and rose from the table in a flash.
Loren stood waiting at the end of the hallway as Pitt rushed by, grabbed her hand, and yanked her into the kitchen. A startled chef and dishwasher simply stopped and stared as Pitt smiled and said hello, then squeezed past some boiling pots with Loren in tow. A back door opened onto a small alley that curved to the main front street. They hustled up to the corner and turned to head away from the restaurant when Loren squeezed Pitt’s hand.
“How about that trolley?” she asked.
An antiquated open-air trolley used to shuffle locals and tourists from one end of town to the other was moving slowly down the street toward them.
“Let’s board on the other side,” Pitt agreed.
They crossed the street just before the trolley approached and then quickly jumped aboard. The seats were all taken, so they were forced to stand as the trolley passed by the front of the café. The man in the blue shirt still stood out front and casually surveyed the trolley as it motored by. Pitt and Loren turned away and tried to screen themselves behind another passenger, but their cover was limited. The man’s eyes froze at the sight of Loren’s purple blouse, then he swung around and pressed his face to the restaurant window. Pitt could see the shock in the man’s face as he turned back and watched the trolley recede down the street. Quickly stumbling after the trolley, he yanked a cell phone from his pocket and frantically dialed as he ran.
Loren looked at Pitt with apologetic eyes. “Sorry, I think he spotted me.”
“No matter,” Pitt replied, trying to stifle her fears with a sure grin. “It’s a small town.”
The trolley made a brief stop at the fish market, where most of the passengers climbed off. Observing their tail still in pursuit a block away, Pitt and Loren grabbed a seat and crouched low as the trolley resumed speed.
“I think I saw a policeman earlier near the dock,” Loren said.
“If he’s not around, we might be able to short-hop another ferry.”
The trolley cruised another block, then approached its stop near the ferry dock. The old vehicle’s wheels were still turning when Pitt and Loren jumped off and scurried toward the dock. But this time, it was Pitt’s turn to grab Loren’s arm and freeze.
Ahead of them, the dock was now empty, the next ferry not due for another half hour. Of greater concern to Pitt was the appearance of two men near the dock’s entrance. One was the Persian from the Blue Mosque, pacing about the quay, alongside his friend in the sunglasses.
“I think we best find some alternate transportation,” Pitt said, guiding Loren in the other direction. They quickly stepped toward the road, where a 1960s-era Peugeot convertible rambled by, followed by a small group of locals on foot trailing it to the waterfront park. Pitt and Loren approached the Turks and tried to melt
into the small party for cover. Their attempt failed when the blue-shirted man from the restaurant appeared down the road. Shouting to his cohorts on the dock, he waved excitedly, then pointed in Pitt’s direction.
“What do we do now?” Loren asked, seeing the men on the dock move in their direction.
“Just keep moving,” Pitt replied.
His eyes were dancing in all directions, searching for an avenue of escape, but their only immediate option was to keep moving with the crowd. They followed the group into the park, finding the open grassy field now lined with two uneven rows of old cars. Pitt recognized many of the highly polished vehicles as Citroën and Renault models built in the fifties and sixties.
“Must be a French car club meet,” he mused.
“Wish we could actually enjoy it,” Loren replied, constantly gazing over her shoulder.
As the group of people around them began to disperse across the field, Pitt led Loren to a cluster of people in the first row. They were congregated around the star of the show, a gleaming early-fifties Talbot-Lago with a bulbous body designed by Italian coach-maker Ghia. Working their way to the back of the crowd, Pitt turned and surveyed their assailants.
The three men were just entering the park together at a brisk pace. Sunglasses was obviously the team leader, and he promptly directed the other two men to either edge of the field while he slowly moved toward the center row of cars.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to leave the way we came in,” Pitt said. “Let’s try to keep ahead of them. We might be able to cut up to the main road from the other end of the park and flag down a car or bus.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to attempting a carjacking at this point,” Loren replied grimly. She moved quickly, skirting around and between the cars, with Pitt a step or two behind. They tried as best they could to use other onlookers as cover, but the crowds thinned as they moved down the row. They soon reached the last car, a postwar two-door convertible painted metallic silver and green. Pitt noticed an older man seated inside taping a “For Sale” sign to the windshield.
“The last of our cover,” Pitt remarked. “Let’s move fast to the trees.”
Pitt grabbed Loren’s hand, and they started to run across the last section of grass field. A thick line of trees circled the park’s perimeter, beyond which Pitt was certain the coastal road lay just to the west.
They’d run just twenty yards when the sight ahead ground them both to a dead stop. Beyond the trees, they could now see a high stone wall that enveloped the southern half of the park. As a deterrent to the private residence on the other side, the wall was topped with shards of broken glass. Pitt knew that even with his help there was no way Loren could quickly scale the wall and outrun their pursuers, let alone avoid a bloody scrape in the process.
Pitt wheeled around and quickly spotted the three men. They were still picking their way through the cars, slowly converging on them. Tugging Loren’s hand, Pitt began walking back toward the line of cars.
“What do we do now?” Loren asked, fear evident in her voice.
Pitt looked at her with a devilish sparkle in his eye.
“In the words of Monty Hall, let’s make a deal.”
12
DOES SHE SPORT A COTAL TRANSMISSION?” PITT ASKED.
The older bearded man leaned over and opened the car’s driver’s-side door.
“She certainly does,” he said in a clearly American accent. “You familiar with Delahayes?” His face perked up as he gazed at the tall, dark-haired man and his attractive wife.
“I’ve long admired the marque,” Pitt replied, “especially the coachwork-bodied vehicles.”
“This is a 1948 Model 135 convertible coupe, with a custom body from the Paris shop of Henri Chapron.”
The large two-door convertible had clean but heavy lines that exemplified the simple designs of auto manufacturers immediately after World War II. Loren admired the striking green-and-silver paint scheme, which made the car look even longer.
“Did you restore it yourself?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m a miner by trade. I ran across the car at an old dacha in Georgia while working a project on the Black Sea coast. It was in rough shape but all there. Brought it back to Istanbul and had some local talent help me with the restoration. It’s not concours quality, but I think she looks nice. They squeezed a lot of speed out of her six-cylinder engine, so she runs like a demon.” He reached out a hand toward Pitt. “My name is Clive Cussler, by the way.”
Pitt shook the man’s hand, then quickly introduced himself and Loren.
“She’s a beauty,” Pitt added, though his eyes were focused on the nearby crowd. The man with the sunglasses was staring at him from five cars away, walking casually in his direction. Pitt spotted the other two men farther afield but closing from the flanks.
“Why are you selling the car?” he asked while quietly motioning Loren to approach the passenger door.
“I’m headed over to Malta for a bit and I won’t have room for it there,” the man said with a disappointed look. He smiled as Loren opened the left side suicide door. A black-and-tan dachshund sleeping on the seat gave her an annoyed look, then hopped out and ran to its owner. Loren slid into the leather-bound front passenger seat, then waved to Pitt.
“You look good in the car,” Cussler said, turning on the sales charm.
Loren smiled back. “Would it be all right if we took it for a little test-drive around the park?” she asked.
“Why, of course. The keys are in it.” He turned to Pitt. “You’re familiar with the Cotal transmission? You only need to use the clutch to start and stop.”
Pitt nodded as he quickly slipped behind the wheel of the right-hand-drive car. Turning the ignition key, he listened with satisfaction as the motor immediately fired to life.
“We’ll be back shortly,” he said, waving to the man out of the window.
Pitt reversed the car, then turned down the back row of show cars, hoping to avoid Sunglasses. The assailant stepped around the last car in line and spotted Pitt behind the wheel just as the Delahaye pulled forward. Pitt gently mashed the throttle, trying to keep the rear wheels from spinning on the slick grass as the car lurched ahead. Sunglasses hesitated, then yelled for him to stop. Pitt promptly ignored the plea as the tires found their grip and the old car accelerated quickly, leaving the man in his tracks.
Pitt could hear additional shouting over the whine of the engine, then Loren called out a warning ahead. The Topkapi thief in the blue shirt appeared along the row of cars a dozen yards ahead.
“He’s got a gun,” Loren yelled as the accelerating car drew them closer.
Pitt could see that the man had produced a handgun, which he tried to obscure by holding it flat against the side of his leg. He stood near the back of a Peugeot wood-paneled wagon, waiting for the Delahaye to draw alongside.
With the motor screaming at high revolutions, Pitt popped the French car’s tiny dash-mounted shifter into second gear. Just a few feet ahead, the blue-shirted man raised his arm holding the pistol.
“Duck down,” Pitt shouted, then floored the accelerator.
The triple-carbureted engine spurted power, throwing Pitt and Loren back into their seats. The sudden acceleration threw off the gunman’s timing as well, and he quickly struggled to aim the weapon toward the windshield. Pitt refused to give him the chance.
Yanking the steering wheel hard to the right, Pitt aimed the Delahaye’s curved prow directly for the startled gunman. Blocked by the back of the Peugeot, the man had only one way to move. Furiously backpedaling, he abandoned making a precise shot in order to avoid becoming a hood ornament.
The Delahaye’s front fender scraped along the Peugeot’s bumper before creasing the gunman’s leg, knocking him away from the car. Two shots rang out from his pistol before he crumpled alongside the Peugeot, writhing in agony. Both shots flew high, one shredding through the canvas roof, the other catching air.
Pitt hurriedly cranked the ste
ering wheel back to avoid ramming the remaining row of cars. Fishtailing across the lawn, the Delahaye nearly struck a farmer’s pickup truck entering the park loaded with melons. Shocked visitors scattered from their path as Pitt pounded on the horn in warning. Stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, he spotted Sunglasses and the Persian approaching the downed gunman, but neither had a weapon drawn.
Loren peeked up from beneath the dash, the color drained from her face. As they wheeled toward the park exit, Pitt gave her a reassuring wink.
“That fellow was right,” he said with a slight grin. “She is a demon.”
PITT MADE AS IF HE KNEW where he was going, bursting out of the park and turning left down the main road, which headed south along the Bosphorus toward Istanbul. The park gunmen showed no hesitation in making pursuit, quickly commandeering the farmer’s idling truck at gunpoint. Shoving their injured accomplice in first, the other two men hopped into the vehicle and roared out of the park while melons flew off the truck bed like fired cannon shot.
Despite the Delahaye’s age, Pitt and Loren had the advantage in vehicles. The French car’s roots had been in racing, with Delahayes competing successfully in the prewar Le Mans races. Hidden beneath the streamlined bodies custom-built for rich and famous Parisians were high-performing motor machines. A taut suspension and high-revving engine, by 1950s standards, gave Pitt ample opportunity to drive fast. The narrow, winding road, sprinkled with afternoon traffic, would prove to be an equalizer, however.
Screaming through the curves with the pedal to the floor, Pitt quickly shifted through the Cotal transmission. With the use of electromagnetic clutches, the transmission allowed Pitt to change gears by simply flicking the small gear lever mounted on the dash. He was well versed in driving old cars, having his own collection of antique vehicles housed in an airport hangar near Washington, D.C. It was a passion akin to his love of the sea, and he found he was actually enjoying himself, if not the circumstances, in pushing the old Delahaye to its limits.
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