by Gregg Loomis
"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!"
"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 t
ourists 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.
