Gold of Kings

by Davis Bunn

  Harry gripped the railing as the boat thrummed into reverse and backwash rocked the boat. They were surrounded by minarets and bridges and a constant rush of people and vehicles. Harry had been to Istanbul times beyond count. Everybody traveling beyond the borders of safety needed a haven, a place to recoup and refit. Istanbul was perfect. The city offered everything, if you knew where to look and had cash at the ready. Danger was a natural part of this place, a heady spirit overlaid on the sunlit day.

  The city had changed a lot since his last visit, and not changed at all. A ban on donkey carts meant traffic moved faster along narrow streets originally designed for Roman soldiers. Harry spotted a lot more women decked out in black body veils. Turkey’s current government was drawn from the religious right, the first since Ataturk had wrested Turkey from the disintegrating Ottoman rule and founded the Middle East’s strongest democracy. The Islamists drew much of their support from the nation’s poor. Harry had heard they offered Istanbul widows a small stipend to don these head-to-toe black tents. The result was a subtle threat to the city’s more cultured women and their singular independence.

  He skirted the edge of the quayside market, the stalls stinking of smoked fish and mussels in buckets of seawater. Harry liked how Storm didn’t need to be told to stick close. They passed the first of the bridges crossing the Golden Horn, where fishing poles bobbed like a forest of willows in the sultry breeze. He headed away from the water, taking the pedestrian bridge across ten lanes of Oriental mayhem. Harry stopped in front of the train station, built as a mock pasha’s palace in Constantinople’s heyday.

  Harry said, “The bazaar’s only a mile away, but it’s all uphill. On the other hand, the taxis are hot and they don’t have AC.”

  She took a double lock on his left hand. “Let’s walk.”

  “I need to be free to move fast. You know. In case.”

  She dropped his hand. “Sorry.”

  “But when this is over, you want to resume that position, you absolutely have my permission.”

  Storm realized he was joking and produced a tiny smile. “I won’t let you down, Harry.”

  “Girl, if there is one thing I’m sure of, it’s that. Okay, let’s move out.”

  The street they took was steep enough for the sidewalk to be fashioned as broad steps. Tiny shops selling everything from hardware to wedding dresses spread their wares onto the crumbling stone. Pedestrians either picked their way between the hawkers or joined the traffic. A dim haze clung to the city’s numerous hills. The air was rich with the odors of roasting lamb and diesel and charcoal and mountains of spices and baking bread. To their left rose the walls of Suleiman the Magnificent’s palace. A muezzin called the midmorning prayer, his sonorous moan taken up by a hundred other amplified voices. The city took little notice, just one more item amid the daily din.

  He took Storm through the Covered Bazaar, mostly so he could watch her reaction. The gold quarter sparkled in the cool air, every window an Aladdin’s cave. The floors were ancient mosaic, the high ceiling a series of ribbed domes. The branching avenues were tunnels filled with colors and hawkers who chanted their constant welcome. The crowd was thick but fluid. They made good time.

  They emerged by the eastern gate, traversed the tree-lined path, and entered the pedestrian district. The stores were large and their displays elegant. The shoppers were drawn from the Turkish elite. They stopped before a window holding a silk carpet twenty-five feet wide, the color of caramel smoke. Spotlights shimmered upon solid gold threads. A sign at the base said the carpet had been a gift from Suleiman the Magnificent to the Egyptian emir.

  The air-conditioned interior was a series of interconnecting rooms, partitioned by single granite steps and veils of interlocking spotlights. Storm took her time inspecting the wares on display, until a stylish woman approached and asked if she could be of service.

  “I’m here to see Mehmet Ozman.”

  The woman blinked. “But Mr. Mehmet is not here.”

  “Could you tell me where we could find him? Mr. Ozman was probably expecting my grandfather, but he…” She stopped because the woman had vanished. She turned to Harry in confusion. Harry shrugged.

  The saleswoman returned, this time led by a slender young man with spiked hair, a black stovepipe suit, and an attitude that angled his chin toward the ceiling. “Yes, you are here wanting something?”

  “My name is Storm Syrrell. My grandfather—”

  “Is dead.” He wore a dress shirt minus cuff links so that the cuffs flopped when he waved his arm. “Yes. Of course we know all this.”

  “I’m sorry, you are—”

  “Rolfy Ozman. This is my store now.”

  “Your father has—”

  “Uncle. My uncle. He is a sick old man. You have business, perhaps?”

  “Your uncle and my grandfather did business together for many years.”

  “This is important to me?” The delicate chin lifted higher still. “So now you come here why, maybe you are looking for a loan?”

  “No, of course not. I’d just like to ask—”

  “You want I should call the police?”

  Harry said, “No cops.”

  “Listen to your smart friend. Go back to America and take your questions with you.”

  “My grandfather and your uncle were friends.”

  “I don’t care. It is over. Phht. Yesterday’s news. Like your company, yes? Go see the ruins of Istanbul. You will find so many ruins. You will feel at home. Now good-bye.”

  Storm held her ground. “Your uncle may know something vital about how Sean—”

  “Syrrell’s is finished, yes? Doors closed, so sorry. You have no business, nothing to sell. I have nothing here for people with no money. This is a real gallery. We have real clients.” He wheeled about, tossing his cuff over his shoulder. “No information for beggars here. Bye-bye.”

  STORM APPEARED TO STROLL AS they left the elegant walking district and entered the lower-priced sprawl stretching from the hilltop to the Bosphorus. Salesmen in front of carpet stores and jewelry shops beckoned with the same chorus: Pretty lady, come see, we have beautiful things, pretty lady, for you special price. Storm gave no sign she heard any of it. Harry walked a half pace behind her, waiting for the explosion.

  When she reached a T-junction, she stopped. A bus smoked past, inches from her nose. Storm didn’t blink.

  Harry gripped her arm. “What say we back up a pace and maybe find a little shade for that overheated brain of yours.”

  She allowed herself to be pulled over in front of a pastry shop. “The nephew didn’t need to speak with us like that.”

  “No, Storm. He didn’t.”

  “We’ve been doing business with his company for years.”

  Harry tasted the air, found no hint of rage. “Maybe he’s just trying to put the past behind him.”

  “So he shows us the door. Why be angry?”

  “So maybe he’s afraid.”

  “Of what? He said it himself. Syrrell’s is finished.”

  “I thought you’d be furious.”

  “We don’t have time for that.” She snapped into focus. “Call Emma. Tell her what happened. See if her contacts at Interpol can locate the uncle.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  EMMA WEBB SNAPPED HER PHONE shut and stowed it in her purse. She pressed her sunglasses tighter against the bridge of her nose. Her hand slipped down to apply thumb and forefinger to the corners of her mouth, holding tight until she was certain the smile was well hidden. The one that had almost erupted into laughter while Harry was still on the phone. She could do nothing about the funny little quivers disturbing the space below her rib cage. It had to be jet lag.

  Emma crossed the Nice airport arrivals hall, back to where Hakim stood speaking in fluent French with a local police officer. He asked, “Trouble?”

  “Harry and Storm need to locate somebody. Storm thinks it could be critical.”

  Hakim spoke to the policeman, who sketched a tigh
t bow in Emma’s direction and backed off. Emma related what Harry had told her. Most of it, anyway.

  Hakim’s reply was instantaneous. “They are blown.”

  “Harry wonders if maybe the guy was just trying to avoid paying any debts his uncle might have racked up with Syrrell’s. Storm thinks otherwise.”

  “The woman is correct.” Hakim’s tone brooked no doubt. “Business at this level is done with courtesy. Particularly in that region. Even enemies are treated with respect. Especially in public. Honor is everything. They have done business before, yes?”

  “With the uncle, not the nephew.”

  Hakim waved that aside as unimportant. “More is at work here than a whiff of former obligations. I will inform our driver that departure must wait until I speak with Istanbul. Would you be so kind as to buy me a water for the journey?”

  “Sure thing.” Emma walked to the café and ordered a double espresso and two bottles of water. The Nice airport was a palace of light and gentle French chatter. Even the flight announcements sounded enchanting. Emma had never been anywhere in France outside of Paris. Before this morning, visiting the Côte d’Azur had been just another item on the long list headed “Sometime.” As in, one day she would get around to something more than work.

  Standing in a golden French midmorning, staring out forty-foot windows at palms and Mercedes taxis and a world from her dreams, probably had a little to do with why she thought again of Harry Bennett and let her smile slip out.

  The waiter set her coffee on the bar and must have thought the smile was for him. He gave her liquid French eyes and scoped her from bar to hairline and back. Emma had known medical exams that were less thorough. The bartender said, “You wish to see the Riviera with me? I can show you many secret things.”

  “Hey, that’s a super offer and I’m really tempted, but I’m here to do business with those police officers over by the door. You understand police?”

  The waiter sniffed an extremely Gallic response and flipped the dish towel off his shoulder to slap the espresso machine.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Emma picked up the thimble-sized cup, turned her back to the bar, and recalled the conversation with Harry Bennett.

  After passing on news of the confrontation and Storm’s request, Harry had finished with “You really in Monte Carlo?”

  “Outskirts. Hakim thinks we might have found something important, don’t ask me what.”

  Harry had made a sound intensely like a growl. “Should I be jealous?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Here I was, thinking maybe, I don’t know…”

  Emma astonished herself, how much she wanted to have him finish that thought. When he remained silent, she prodded, “This from the man holding hands with the lollipop in Istanbul.”

  “Number one, Storm is no lollipop. Number two, old Harry’s got his eye on bigger game.”

  “Thanks a lot. Give me a second to decide which I like less, being big, or being a game.”

  “I didn’t mean, big as in hefty.”

  “Wait, I got it. You meant tough. As in, old shoe leather.”

  “You’re saying I should stop while I’m in reverse.”

  “Before you drive straight off that cliff behind you.”

  “I’m a little out of practice.”

  She had clenched her teeth to hold in a retort about Harry’s jail time. When she remained silent, he asked, “Maybe you’ll give me a chance to polish my act?”

  “In your dreams, sailor.”

  “Please tell me that’s just a cop’s way of saying yes.”

  Emma broke all her own rules. She said what she thought, using the low voice she’d almost forgotten about. “You know what? I’d really like for us to find some time together.”

  Harry gave that a respectful beat, then said, “This place is way too hot to be giving me a case of the shivers.”

  Which was sort of funny, since she had been thinking the exact same thing.

  THE RENAULT WAITING FOR THEM at curbside could only have been an unmarked cop car. The blue was a shade that nobody except a government official would ever dream of buying. The driver ushered them both into the rear seat, started his supercharged motor, and zoomed away. Hakim addressed the driver in French, then said to Emma, “We should be there in just under an hour.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Grasse. A lovely city. Heart of the perfume industry. Alas, we shall have no chance to view the valleys of lavender and thyme. Our destination is far less scenic.”

  “Your French is fluent?”

  “French, Arabic, English, a Lebanese hill dialect my mother made me learn. I loathed it. A barbaric tongue.”

  It was the most he had ever spoken of himself. “You’re Syrian, right?”

  “My father. So officially, yes, though I only lived there two years. My mother is Marionite. You have heard of this perhaps?”

  “The name, sure.”

  “Marionites were some of the earliest Christians. A few remain as hill tribes above the Bekaa Valley. Our territory once extended as far south as the Golan Heights. Now we are dispersed all over the world. My mother’s parents worked in Beirut when the Lebanese civil war broke out. They died in the early fighting.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. My mother was sent to live with relatives in Damascus. She fell in love with a Syrian Muslim. You must understand, the Syrians were deeply involved in the same civil war that had killed my grandparents. My mother’s act was unthinkable. She was banished from her family. My parents lived in Damascus for a time, with my father’s family. But this too was difficult, so they fled, first to France and then to Canada. Now they are in Jordan.” Hakim flattened his moustache. “It is a familiar story in the Middle East. Our Bedu past breeds a common restlessness. We have always been migrants.”

  His story was fascinating enough to take her mind off the road, at least until a tight curve jammed her into Hakim’s side. “And I thought I was an aggressive driver.”

  “He is probably showing off.”

  “Tell him it’s a wasted effort.”

  “He is French. He would only drive faster. You have been to France before?”

  “Paris. As a student.”

  He gave an airy wave to the yawning drop and the Mediterranean beyond. “This road is known as the Corniche. It was originally laid by the Romans, who used Nice as one of their ports. Here the Alps begin very close to the sea. We are going to a natural plateau region. Plenty of sunshine, a long growing season, water pouring off the mountains beyond, small tight valleys that form natural hothouses for growing flowers and herbs that create the aromas to make a woman more alluring.”

  Emma spotted the driver giving her a tight grin through the rearview mirror. “Keep your eyes on the road, bub.”

  “He claims not to speak English. Which may mean he speaks it perfectly, but was ordered simply to repeat back to his superiors whatever we say.”

  “I thought we were on the same side.”

  “Like our esteemed allies in Washington, yes?” Hakim slipped a pair of sunglasses from his pocket. “We are invited here because the local authorities need something. What exactly, I am not sure.”

  They powered through countless switchbacks in tightly controlled four-wheeled skids. The road had no barrier between them and the abyss except occasional painted stone markers.

  Hakim said, “After the second World War, international conventions and public shaming forced the French to close their South American penal colonies. They reopened a prison originally built by the Romans as a fortress.”

  They turned off the main road, onto a narrow lane the color of the surrounding ochre hills. The driver whipped around a turn and the world dropped away. Thirty miles to the south, the Mediterranean sparkled and beckoned, bordered by a necklace of beaches and seaside towns and verdant green hills. Their road, carved from a cliff face, swept them away from the sea and into a vista of dry alpine peaks. The rising heat
separated the mountains from the earth, such that they rested upon clouds of shimmering dust, their summits melting into the chalk blue Provençal sky.

  Hakim appeared as unconcerned with the view as with their speed. “The practice of tattooing prison rage has been imported from America. But here it is done with French flair. Each prison has its own signature. The symbol for our destination is a burning rose. The next valley north is used for growing wild roses. I am told you can smell their fragrance when the wind is right.”

  A final turn revealed an earthen bridge set upon a ridgeline. The road narrowed further, to where the tires seemed ready to fall away on either side. At the far end, a lone mountain had been flattened, as though mashed flat with a giant’s hand. Upon it was set a fortress from beyond time.

  Even Hakim slid forward in his seat for a clearer view. “Legend has it that eight thousand Roman slaves lost their lives levelling that peak and building this road.”

  The prison’s outer walls were built of dry cut stone. Emma found it impossible to tell where the old stone ended and the new stone began. The yellow dust turned every surface the same pale and hopeless shade.

  Hakim said, “The prisoners call this place La Parfumerie. The perfume factory.”

  The driver radioed ahead. A claxon sounded from the fortress wall and massive steel doors slid back. They entered a confine beneath dual guard towers. The driver pulled into a parking space and pointed them toward a door. As Emma rose from the car, he winked at her and said, “Have a nice day.”

  THEY PASSED THROUGH TWO SECURITY portals and entered the prison’s admin wing. Guards coming off duty barked their words, their faces taut. A subaltern approached, saluted smartly, and addressed Hakim in rapid-fire French. They were led to a narrow antechamber between the main guardroom and the commandant’s office. All the guards she could see wore uniforms of police blue cut in a distinct military style, with caps fitted into their shoulder lapels, cloth badges of rank, and then trouser legs tucked into polished leather boots. Emma stepped to the window as Hakim’s phone rang. The view was of hills baking under a porcelain sky.