Tell me about it.
Gurt started to say something and thought better of it, edging toward the door. "We have a hurry to get to…"
The patriarch smiled. "Americans are always in a hurry, perhaps so is the whole modern world."
Lang tucked the papers into his belt. "How much do we owe you for your time in translating these?"
The man seemed genuinely surprised. "Owe? As a debt? I owe you for allowing me to see a copy of such rare documents, so rare I suspect I will hear much about them soon." He paused a moment. "Of course, if you wish to make a donation to the monastery…"
Levanto reached the top of the staircase and pushed gently against the trapdoor to the roof.
Stuck!
He shoved harder with the same result.
Cursing softly in Sicilian Italian, he scampered back down the stairs and glanced around the room for a tool. The butt of the Walther was the obvious choice, but to use it to batter the stubborn hinges of the door to the roof would be to risk damage to the delicate sight and firing mechanism.
His eyes fell on a pair of pine chairs with woven reed seats. In a step, he had one of them by a leg, smashing it against the floor. All but the leg he held splintered.
Mounting the staircase again, he jabbed the chair leg against the recalcitrant trapdoor. His effort was rewarded when one of the boards came loose, then another.
Lang and Gurt were crossing the cloister again, accompanied by the patriarch. Although every instinct told him to hurry, Lang could not have enunciated a rational reason to do so. The Gulfstream would be waiting in Ankara and they would be out of Turkey before Inspector Aziz knew they had left Istanbul. Experience, though, had taught him that not only was he who hesitated lost, he was usually terminally fucked as well.
Fidgeting, he consulted his watch as the kind old man explained the Bible story depicted in a panel of mosaics. The cleric was clearly taking delight in delivering a tour of the premises. Gurt was enjoying it, too, despite her earlier inclination to make haste. Lang's Southern rearing made him loath to appear rude by cutting the patriarch short. He still could not have given a reason for his urge to hurry other than a belief in the quote from a brilliant if semiliterate Confederate general that it was best to git while the gittin' was good.
Levanto used the chair leg to pry open the remaining parts of the trapdoor. He waited cautiously to make sure the noise had attracted no attention before he pulled himself up. A second later, he was on the roof. A pair of folding lounge chairs and a plastic table confirmed his guess the place was used to take in the sun. More important, he could now see over the helicopter and into the space between it and the church's entrance. When the passengers returned to depart, he would have a very brief gap in which they would be in view. The question now was whether it would be enough time to sight the rifle in time and confirm the chopper's passenger was the intended target.
It would be close but possible.
Gurt and the patriarch stood just inside the doorway as he explained something to her. Lang waited impatiently behind. The helicopter pilot, seeing them, turned over the starter and the rotor began a slow circle.
Gurt finished the conversation and preceded Lang outside as the rotor's blades blurred and the ship became light on its skids.
Through the scope, Levanto could see there were actually two passengers; a man and a woman. Avoiding the temptation to let his view linger a little longer on the woman, a tall and very shapely blonde, he switched to her male companion and smiled. There was no doubt: he was looking at the man in the photographs.
Obligingly, the target stopped long enough to say something to someone behind him, someone Levanto could not see. Levanto used perhaps a tenth of a second of the unexpected time to make a minor adjustment to the scope to compensate for the increased wind on the rooftop and estimate the prop wash from the blades. He inhaled deeply, exhaling and beginning a slow, gentle squeeze of the trigger.
Almost at exactly the same time as the Walthers recoil thumped against Levanto's shoulder, something whirled across the scope, something large and blurred. Without thought, he chambered another round.
Lang was never quite sure of the exact following sequence. Gurt climbed aboard with him a few feet behind. There was a clang of metal on metal, the unmistakable whip crack of a rifle and the whine of a ricocheting bullet that buzzed past Lang's head like a hungry mosquito. By reaction rather than plan, he lunged for the aircraft's open door, colliding with the marine escort who was fumbling with the holster on his webbed belt. Both men tumbled to the floor as the ship lifted off.
Lang struggled uncertainly to his feet. He was about to wonder if any damage had been done to injuries still healing when the pilot's head dissolved, splattering blood and brain tissue across the windscreen and cockpit.
It was unlikely Lang would forget any of what happened next, but what stood out was the calm assurance with which the copilot grasped the controls in front of him with one hand while wiping the gore from his helmet's visor with the other. Use of this ship as a messenger service might be wasting the taxpayers' money, but the man's piloting skill was worth every dime.
The Black Hawk/Seahawk was vibrating slightly as it banked sharply left and climbed. Holding on to a series of overhead straps that reminded him of a New York subway car, Lang made his way forward.
He had not had time to put on the headset. "What…?" he screamed at the copilot's back.
The copilot's answer was to hold up a hand, signaling to stand by. Lang guessed he was on the radio, seeking instructions from the consulate.
When he had finished, he turned slightly in his seat, pushing the boom mike away to speak to Lang. "Dunno. Somebody took a shot through the rotors before shootin' the lieutenant." He pointed to a bank of incomprehensible dials and gauges. "Doesn't look like he hit a vein, the hydraulics that angle the blades so we can control the ship. He did take a nick outta one of the blades, though. That's what's causing the vibration. I'm gonna try to get the lieutenant to the nearest hospital."
Lang glanced at the blood-soaked corpse reclining in the pilot's seat. He caught himself before saying something to the effect the lieutenant was in no hurry. Instead, he waited for this thing to shake itself into pieces in midair.
Levanto cursed for the second time in less than thirty minutes. Unbelievable! His first shot had been deflected by the helicopter's rotor blades. By the time he had worked the rifle's bolt and recentered the sight, moves he had practiced hundreds of times, he knew he had less than a good chance of hitting the pilot as the ship lifted into the air. He had, though. And with a killing shot. Yet the helicopter had not spun out of control as he had anticipated. He had not seen a copilot but clearly someone had taken charge quickly despite what was possibly the best shot of Levanto's career, a feat he suspected his client would not fully appreciate.
For an instant, he contemplated a third try, one for the helicopter's engine. His discipline overrode his anger. At this range, such an attempt would serve more to divulge his location than to bring the chopper down. Best he keep his rendezvous with the horse and wagon.
To Lang, the trip back seemed much shorter than the outbound leg. He did, however, have time to think. Perhaps too much time. Despite the parts of the radio conversation he could hear and the consensus of the three remaining marines, he was certain this was not a terrorist plot to kill the pilot in an attempt to intercept communications between the consulate in Istanbul and the embassy in Ankara. Muslim jihadists had bigger goats to fry, more important infidels to kill. Or just more important than a marine lieutenant. And there were certainly more significant messages to intercept and bigger things to blow up than a single helicopter. Like schools, churches and other places the innocent might gather.