They, too, were listening.
After another sneeze had potentially betrayed his and Gurt's position, Lang whispered, "We can't stay here."
"OK, you plan to go where?"
Lang's foot touched something on the otherwise smooth bottom. He stooped and picked up something of stone. About the size of a softball. There was no light to determine exactly what it was or whether it had fallen from the centuries-old roof or was part of something else.
It really didn't matter.
He waited until a voice, then another bounced off the walls of the cavernous lake. Making the best guess he could as to direction, he hurled the stone the opposite way. He was rewarded with yells and sounds of men trudging through the water. He was certain now they were going away from him and Gurt.
He wanted to wait a few minutes, let them put even more distance between them.
"It is not safe to stay," Gurt grumbled. "If we remain longer, we'll have pneumonia."
"Better pneumonia than lynched. Come on."
Instead of risking returning the way they had entered, Lang searched the inky dark until he thought he saw a tiny blur of light. Hands outstretched to prevent colliding with columns, they slowly waded toward it. From ten or fifteen feet away, Lang recognized light around the edges of a door. They climbed out of the water shaking like spaniels with the chill.
Lang tried the door. "It's locked."
He could feel Gurt's hand over his as she checked out the lock by touch. "Is an old one. Do you have a knife?"
"Will a credit card do?"
"Try it."
After several minutes of sliding the card up and down the frame without finding the locking mechanism, Lang said, "I can't find the damn bolt."
"Perhaps it is simply swollen shut from the moisture, not locked."
"No, I can see light around the edge."
"Try a hard kick."
Lang gave the door a blow with his foot and it moved slightly. With a second, it swung open, its rusted locking mechanism dangling. Climbing a few stairs put the pair in the lobby of a another small hotel. Lang could hear each step squish water from his shoes. In his imagination, a fish leaped from a pants pocket. The clerk and two guests stared bug-eyed at two people, fully clothed, dripping wet and calmly walking through to the street.
Lang stopped at the door, unable to resist turning to the guests. "Lovely swimming pool but not very well lit."
Once back in their own hotel room, Gurt held up one of her two new purses, wrinkled as prune. "Ach! It has become ruined!"
Lang looked at the box with his carpet slippers in it. It was hemorrhaging red dye. Destroyed, no doubt.
He wouldn't have to wear the damn things.
"Ah, well, it's an ill wind ..."
Gurt's glare told him he had been speaking out loud.
He hoped she hadn't understood what he meant. But when he climbed into bed, instead of the noisy and joyous sex that usually followed a close call, an expressionless back was turned to him.
X.
Church of St. Saviour in Chora
The Next Morning
The taxi had careened along the road paralleling the Theodosian. Walk, four miles of fortified gates, towers and moats that had sealed off the city from the landmass from the Sea of Marmara to the Golden Horn. For a thousand years, their red tiles and yellowish limestone had resisted sieges by Attila the Hun, Russians, Bulgars, Arabs and even the armies of the Fourth Crusade.
The twin-domed Church of St. Saviour was unimposing compared to the massive mosques that dotted the city. It did, however, contain one of the finest displays of Byzantine mosaics.
Lang was glad they had come early enough to give them time to see the genealogy and life of Christ in the north and south domes, the chronology of the life of the Virgin, Christ's infancy and ministry, all done in tiles no bigger than the nail of his little finger. Like many artists, the fourteenth-century remodeler of the church, Theodore Metocites, had an ego. He had included a scene of himself presenting the finished building to Christ.
Styles change; human nature does not.
Outside in the small walled garden, guests were arriving for the baptism. There were none in obvious Muslim dress. The chatter of multiple conversations slowed, then ceased as a tall man with a flowing white beard appeared among a number of younger priests. From his black vestments, tall hat and Greek cross, Lang surmised he was seeing the patriarch, an assumption fortified by each guest bowing their head for the holy man's touch and blessing.
Lang was unsure exactly how to approach the churchman with his request. He need not have worried. The patriarch stopped in front of him and smiled.
"You must be the American, Lang Reilly," he said in slightly accented English. "You were the friend of Father Strentenoplis?"
Lang nodded. "Yes, Your Holiness."
The old man shook his head sadly. "May his soul be with God. One of our American friends in the Roman Church was kind enough to contact someone at the Vatican who called my office here about your visit. Has it been a pleasant one?"
Other than nearly going over a cliff and being chased by a mob from a mosque.
"Yes, sir."
"I understand you have a document in ancient Greek you wish translated."
"Actually in Egyptian Greek. It's supposed to be one of the Nag Hammadi books."
The patriarch held out a hand, age spotted and ridged with blue veins. "May I see it?"
Lang reached into his shirt, thankful he had wrapped the pages in a waterproof bag to protect it against sweat, Last night's excursion would have ruined it otherwise. "It is a copy"
The old man smiled again. "So I see. Or its authors chose to use bond paper available at any copy store."
Lang was always relieved to know he was dealing with someone with a sense of humor. "I have reason to believe some people don't want its contents known."
A chuckle like the sound of dry logs burning. "Some people would suppress all knowledge. Our brothers in Rome once had that reputation. On the other hand, our church, the church of Constantine, preserved the wisdom and science of the ancients, tolerated their religions, when the Western church had declared science and the old gods heresies. Be assured you will get an accurate translation in that tradition."
"Thank you, sir. Without being unappreciative, might I ask when the translation will be complete?"
The patriarch handed the pages to a priest at his elbow. "There are only a few pages. I see no reason why you cannot have it in two days. Three at the most. In the meantime, enjoy this marvelous city. You might start right here with this fine collection of mosaics the Ottoman Turks were kind enough to preserve."
He saw the look of skepticism on Lang's face. "Preserve them they did. When Constantinople fell, all churches were converted to mosques, frescos and mosaics plastered over. In 1922 when French and English occupation ended, Ataturk's constitution proclaimed a secular state. The remaining Christians here simply removed the plaster. The artwork had been preserved far better than if it had been left exposed. I believe you Americans would refer to that as the law of unintended consequences."
Indeed.
Lang and Gurt watched the old man walk away, stopping to bless all who wished it.
"How long the translation takes does not matter while the policeman holds our passports," she observed.
"That," Lang said, "is why our next stop is the American consulate. Let's see if we can bring a little pressure on Inspector Aziz."
XI.
Buyukada Princes' Islands
At the Same Time
Inspector Aziz normally didn't read the routine daily reports of police activity, but this one had caught his attention.
Last night there had been two seemingly unrelated incidents: A young hoodlum had tried to snatch the purse of a tourist in the Grand Bazaar. By the time the policeman had reached the trouble spot, the perpetrator had a very sore groin among other possible injuries. One of his associates had a bloody nose. Both inflicted by the woman, not her male companion. The woman, tall and blonde, spoke English with a decided accent. The man was American. The young thugs got away but, in the reporting officer's opinion, had been duly punished anyway.
A weak excuse for not doing his job, but that was some other inspector's problem.
An hour or so later, a couple fitting the same description had disrupted the evening prayers at the nearby Nuruosmaniye Mosque. At the same time, a gang of young men had entered the mosque, apparently in pursuit of the couple. The couple had escaped both the infuriated worshipers and the band of street criminals.
A lot of guesswork rather than police work but interesting. The man he had assigned to keep watch on Reilly and the woman had reported nothing unusual other than the fact they had spotted him, thereby rendering his surveillance useless and he had therefore gone home to dinner. Aziz would make sure the next assignment for that fool would be chasing pickpockets in the narrow confines of the Spice Bazaar.
He smiled. Disturbing the peace as well as disrupting a religious assembly were petty crimes but crimes nonetheless. Just cause for investigation and interrogation. He ran a finger across his mustache. There was no doubt in Aziz's mind who the couple were. As was so often the case, the female would appear to be deadlier than the male. But Interpol had no record of her. The very fact a woman of such capabilities had left no paper trail suggested a number of interesting possibilities. One did not naturally come by the ability to turn an opponent's size and weight against him. Such things were taught, taught by the military, police and intelligence services.
The latter raised some very interesting questions. Turkey's borders with Syria, Iran, Iraq and Russia had made the country a center for espionage for the last three decades. Could it be that Aziz was about to uncover something of international significance? He had no idea what. But did it matter as long as he received the credit?
He had every right to have Reilly and the woman detained and questioned about the affair at the mosque. Perhaps he would discover exactly what their business in Turkey might be. Possibly he would uncover something that would finally get him back across the Sea of Marmara. Besides, a pair of sore balls and a bloody nose were the least of the problems they might cause. Turkey, like other countries wedged between conflicting political structures, had learned spies had a genetic disregard of the laws of their host country.
He reached across the desk and began to shuffle papers. He had written down the name and address of the hotel that had called about admitting them without passports.
XII.
Side Hotel and Pension
Thirty Minutes Later
Gurt and Lang had returned to their hotel to leave their weapons. The security level at American embassies and consulates in this part of the world would surely have detected firearms and neither wanted to have to explain why they were armed.
Gurt was gazing out of the window. "We will not make it to the consulate, I think."
Lang was emerging from the bathroom where he had taped one gun under the sink. The other he had stuck to the bottom of a drawer. The popularity of
The Godfather
had made underneath the toilet tank top the first place anyone looked.
"Why not?"
"There are two police cars outside."
With perfect timing, there was a frame-rattling knock on the door.
Lang opened up and looked into the faces of two officers. The flaps on their holsters were undone as if they expected trouble.
Lang bowed deeply, gesturing. "Do come in, gentlemen. It was so very kind of Inspector Aziz to send two men to return our passports."
Neither seemed amused.
"Come with us," one said gruffly, peering past Lang into the room.
Lang continued the charade, giving Gurt time to make sure there was no scrap of tape, no clue something had recently been concealed. "Oh, that won't be necessary. He doesn't have to return them in person. Just drop them off at the front desk."
Cops are not known for their sense of humor and these two were no exception. The one who had spoken grabbed the front of Lang's shirt. "I said, come with us."
As close as the two stood to each other, it would have been relatively easy to disable and disarm both. That, however, wasn't going to get the passports back or make the inspector any more cooperative.
Lang held up his hands, a gesture of submission. "OK, OK! I'm coming."
They drew the attention of the three or four people lounging in the lobby/reception area as they were herded through and stuffed into the backseats of different police cars, separated from the front by the wire mesh common to law enforcement vehicles. One behind the other, they descended to the Golden Horn, crossed the Galata Bridge and entered Istanbul's commercial center, Beyoglu. Dominated by the Galata Tower at its highest point, it had been first settled by Genoese traders and merchants in the thirteenth century, soon to be followed by Jews fleeing the Spanish Inquisition, Arabs, Greeks and Armenians. It was also here that the European powers established embassies to further trade with the Ottoman Empire. Except for the fourteenth-century tower, the area could have been the center of any modern city.