Nick acknowledged the signal with a nod. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Sure you do,” said CJ. Then her voice became distant, like she was holding the phone in front of her face. “Dinner, Nick Baron. A very expensive dinner.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 20
The Grand Bazaar was a sprawling labyrinth of roofed-in streets, all hopelessly narrow, all packed with rugs and hookahs and knickknacks, and all echoing with the shouts of merchants and the buzz of more than three hundred thousand daily visitors. It was a claustrophobic man’s nightmare and a covert operative’s dream.
Drake sniffed the air and grinned. “I love this place. Why have you never brought me here before?”
“I’ve never had a reason, dear.”
Nick had not been to the Grand Bazaar in years, but he found his way through the maze with little trouble, mostly by following his nose. Hadad liked to meet at a favorite tea shop, and all of the tea, coffee, and spice shops in the bazaar were concentrated into one long row — the same row that had housed them for more than half a millennium.
In this section of the bazaar, shop was a loose term. Bay would be better. The cafés amounted to little more than shallow caves lining the covered street. The kitchens took up most of the space, while the patron seating — painted iron chairs and little round tables — spilled out into the narrow street. Nick and Drake each ordered a mint tea from Hadad’s chosen shop and took a seat at the edge of the bay.
“He should be here,” said Drake, checking his watch.
Nick raised a tiny glass to his lips. “This is Turkey,” he said before taking a sip. “Any appointment time comes with an implied ‘ish’ at the end. Besides, he’s already here. He has protection posted.” With a subtle movement of his elbow, Nick indicated a waiter that haunted the opposite corner of the bay. His grim expression contrasted sharply with his bright red jacket and fez.
Drake brushed a hand through the hair on the back of his head, a pretext to get a look at the sentry. “That guy could play for the Patriots,” he said when he turned back.
“He’s scoping us out. Hadad will show up in his own time.” Nick took another sip of tea and then drew the shooter’s knife from the pocket of his coat. He held it with both hands, running his thumb across the gold calligraphy. “Ana al-muftaah,” he read out loud.
“Say again.”
“It’s Arabic. It means, ‘I am the key.’”
He handed the knife to Drake, who held one end up to his eye, trying to look down inside. “How do you open it?”
“I don’t know, but I assume each blade comes out like a spring stiletto, so I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“That’s good advice.” Thin and cracked with age, the voice came from close by Nick’s left shoulder. He had not heard the old man’s approach, despite the fact that he walked with a cane. Nick smiled, but he did not turn. “It has been too long, my friend. God’s peace be upon you.”
“And upon you, Nicholas, though it never seems to stick.” Hadad placed a withered hand on Nick’s shoulder and lowered himself into the chair between the two operatives. He was small, shrunken by his many years, which Nick figured to be at least ninety. He rested a cane with a gilded head between his knees and then, without asking, he reached out and took the knife from Drake. “What an exquisite piece,” he said, wrapping his gnarled fingers around the hilt. The two blades shot out from the sides with a metallic ring. “And it is functional. Remarkable. I presume you are looking for a trade? I’ve been working on a new shoulder-launched missile that you might like.”
“Easy, Hadad. We just need information. We need to know where the knife came from.”
The blades retracted as quickly as they had shot out. “I see.” Hadad gently laid the knife on the table and smacked his lips, pushing a tobacco-stained tongue off the roof of his mouth. “I am thirsty, Nicholas. And too much talk dries out an old throat. Perhaps some tea might strengthen my voice.” He raised a hand, and the grim waiter in the red jacket and fez came over with a glass of tea and plate of sweet halva wafers on a tray.
Nick knew the drill. He slipped the waiter a small stack of bills, much more than tea and wafers were worth. The waiter left the refreshments and returned to his post.
Hadad sipped his tea in silence for a while, watching the tourists passing by. Finally, he set down his glass and picked up the knife again. He pressed his thumb against the back of his cane and the tip of the gold head swung open, revealing a set of bifocals. These he put on before examining the hilt, slowly rotating it with his fingers.
“How did you get it to open?” asked Drake, losing patience with the old man’s silence.
Hadad grinned at the big operative, exposing an uneven row of yellowed teeth. “It is an ancient design using cogs and springs. You could call it clockwork. The switch is hidden. Look here.” He flipped the hilt to the side with the silver circle and crescent moons and pressed the symbol inward with his thumb. The blades shot out. As soon as he released it, they retracted again.
“That explains why they retracted when the shooter dropped it,” said Nick, but Hadad did not seem to hear him. The old man had fixated on the symbol. He adjusted his bifocals and brought the weapon to within an inch of his nose. “Did you say that you fought a man who wielded this knife?”
Nick nodded. “He had the same symbol tattooed on the palm of his hand, the circle with the crescent moons.”
Hadad removed his glasses and looked up, dropping the quaint, dotard expression he had maintained since he arrived. He was suddenly alert, and very grave. “The man with the tattoo. Did you kill him?”
“I threw him off a roof.”
“But did you kill him?”
Nick found the urgency in the old man’s voice perplexing. “No. He disappeared.”
Hadad pushed the hilt into Nick’s hand and leaned on his cane to stand. “I have told you all that I can. Thank you for the tea.”
Nick took hold of his arm to keep him at the table. “You saw something on that hilt. What was it?”
“It was nothing. Let me go.” Hadad pulled against Nick’s grasp. The Turkish linebacker started toward them. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Drake reaching for his Beretta. This meet was going sideways, fast, but he needed answers. “Please, Hadad. For an old friend.”
Hadad hesitated for a moment longer and then settled back down in his chair. He motioned for his protector to back off. Drake withdrew his hand from his jacket.
“Only for you, Nicholas,” said Hadad as he set his cane between his knees again. He lowered his voice so that Nick could barely hear him over the echo of the crowd. “At first, I thought you had brought me an artifact. The design is centuries old. So are the symbol and the motto on the hilt. They all belong to an ancient order.”
“Which ancient order?” asked Nick.
Hadad glanced up and down the street as if his answer might bring enemies flying from the shadows. “The Hashashin,” he whispered.
“The society of killers from the Middle Ages?” asked Drake, sitting back and folding his arms.
The old man winced and motioned for him to keep his voice down. “Not killers. Assassins.”
“The Hashashin died out eight hundred years ago,” said Nick. “What are you so afraid of?”
“This weapon is newly fashioned.”
“So? It’s a fake, then.”
“You don’t understand. This is not one of the trinkets we sell to the tourists. Its construction requires methods and materials forgotten to history.” Hadad handed Nick his bifocals. “I have only known one smith who still retains these skills. His family was rumored to have served the Hashashin as armorers.” He slowly tapped the hilt at the bottom of the silver circle. “That man’s name was Ayan Ashaq.”