"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."