Best not to let these infidels see his indecision. "I remind you, Mr. Reilly, you are in my country, not yours. I will return your passports when my investigation is complete."
"Investigation of what, some disturbance in a mosque?"
"We know nothing about any mosque," Gurt chimed in, drawing the inspector's eyes back to her.
Had another button on her blouse come undone?
The inspector made a decision.
"Go to your consulate, then. I will find witnesses to the incident in question. If they cannot identify you, your passports will be returned."
"In the meantime, we're free to go?" Lang asked.
Aziz sneered. "You will not go far without your papers."
He was answering the ring of the phone as they left.
Gurt and Lang tried not to hurry down the hall or stairs. Once outside, they dashed to the first cab they could find.
Lang handed the driver a wad of Turkish lira. "There's more if you can get us to the Side Hotel in a hurry. A big hurry."
Once underway, Gurt was rebuttoning her blouse as she spoke. "Once we get our, er, possessions, where do we go?"
"The airport and the first flight out of Turkey."
"We can do this before he finds out you slipped the passports off the desk while he was staring down my shirt?"
"You're right. The airport is the first place he'll look. I don't understand why the man is so interested in us in the first place and I don't want to stick around long enough to find out."
They were silent for a second or so before Gurt said, "The agency has perhaps a safe house here. A favor or two is owed me at the Frankfurt office."
She produced a BlackBerry and keyed in a series of numbers.
As if in response, Lang's BlackBerry buzzed. He sighed when he saw his office number. He was afraid to guess what Home Depot might have left on his doorstep this time.
"OK, Sara, what got delivered now?"
"Lang? I wasn't calling about that. I wanted to remind you, you've got a preliminary hearing in Macon day after tomorrow."
"Macon?"
"Macon. Federal court. Larry Henderson. A narcotics charge, y'know? Like the ones you said you'd never take. The one case in which you don't have a medical leave of absence."
"I'll be there."
But first he had to get out of Istanbul.
XIII.
Piazza dei Cavalleri di Malta
Aventine Hill
Rome
At the Same Time
The room was dark. Heavy curtains blocked the bright sunshine of a summer day in Rome. The only light came from the monitor of a computer, tinting the faces of the two men in front of it a bluish color.
"He has disappeared," the younger of the two said. "Or at least neither he nor the woman have submitted their passports to register in any hotel."
The older man was scanning a list of names on the screen. "Or they are using false papers. Have you checked to see if they are perhaps staying at the monastery?"
The younger shrugged. "The monastery, too, must register its guests."
"What about the airport?" "No airline has booked a flight for them." The older man shook his head. "What do you suggest?"
"We believe he came to Istanbul to have the book translated by someone who can read the ancient Greek. That is what led us to keep watch on the island where the monastery is located…"
"And we had an incompetent to do the most important task this order has faced in centuries!" the other man snorted.
"Grand Master, by the very nature of our order, men who are skilled at such work would be excluded."
The older man put a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder. "You are right as usual, Antonio. Please continue."
"Since Reilly and the woman were not on the island long enough for a full translation, they must be planning to return. This time I have gone outside the order to procure the service we need. The man is a professional."
"One outside the order is not bound to silence about our affairs."
"True, Grand Master. This man, the one waiting near the monastery for Reilly s return, believes he is being paid by a certain organization from Sicily."
The older man gave a grim smile. "You have done well. Let us hope he succeeds."
XIV.
United States Consulate
Mesrutiyet Cad 104-108 Tepebasi
Istanbul
Thirty Minutes Later
Gurt had shown her creds to the marine guards, enabling she and Lang to bypass the building's metal detectors after all. Lang was grateful. He was well aware of the spools of red tape that would have been required to explain the weapons they had retrieved from the hotel as they departed. She gave a name to a receptionist and they were ushered to an elevator.
Jim Hartwell operated under the title of assistant trade attaché, the somewhat shopworn label given the agency's local chief of station. His status meant he had been around a long time, certainly during those years when Lang had been married to Dawn and out of touch with the covert world shared by Gurt and Hartwell What else they might have shared was none of Lang's business. It was clear he had a thing for her. Whether he had lusted from afar or a lot closer than Lang would like to think was going to remain a mystery.
Lang waited patiently while the agency man and Gurt swapped news about mutual acquaintances and reminisced about past assignments. The tailored Italian summer-weight wool suit, the currently popular solid-color power tie and handmade wingtips that had to have come from Milan cost more than a month's pay for a chief of station in anyplace other than a major embassy. His hair was expensively cut and streaked with silver in just the right places. His teeth, which he displayed often, could have served as a commendation for any orthodontist. Lang doubted he had gotten his tan from being outdoors. His appearance, his diction, told Lang Hartwell was one more rich kid who had sat down in the lap of luxury at birth and whose family had accurately assessed his abilities and potential for damage to the family business. Like so many wealthy American dynasties, they had either successfully persuaded or threatened him into "public service," an euphemism for whatever available government job that did not entail sweat or dirty fingernails. If he managed to be something other than a total disaster, politics would be the next step.
As the preliminary pleasantries drew to a conclusion, Lang decided he didn't like Jim Hartwell very much.
Then Gurt outlined the purpose of the visit.
Hartwell tapped his teeth with the stem of a briar that looked well used despite the no smoking signs that adorned every American government outpost from Abu Dhabi to Zwolle.
If there was an American outpost in Zwolle.
"Let me get this straight," the agency man said, staring out of the window of his second-floor office. "You want me to arrange for you both to get out of Turkey by diplomatic means, never mind that Turkey is an important ally of the United States"
"It is a particular police inspector that is no ally," Gurt said.
"Getting people out of places is something your employer routinely does," Lang added, "even when they aren't particularly eager to leave"
Hartwell shot him a glance. "Not as routinely as you think. We got burned a couple of years ago."
He referred to an incident when a suspected Muslim extremist had literally been snatched off the streets of Milan for interrogation in Egypt, where the definition of torture was somewhat looser than in Europe. An outraged Italian government had indicted in absentia the agency personnel suspected. Only the US's refusal to extradite had prevented a very embarrassing trial.