by Gregg Loomis
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.
VI.
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 ens
uing 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.
VII.
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.
VIII.
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.
