served in the British army as a youngster.’ It wasn’t a very compelling explanation. The most he’d learned in the army about weapons had been directly connected to theatres of war—SA80s, 30 mm Rarden cannon and 7.62 mm Hughes chain guns—but Ertas gave the impression of accepting his account.
‘And the motorcyclists—did you see their faces?’
‘No.’
‘Think they were men?’
Tallis hesitated. The individual riding the bike had certainly seemed too big and broad to be a woman, but judging by half the female population of the United Kingdom you simply never knew. The pillion passenger had been much smaller and could have been of either sex. He told Ertas this. Then something else flashed through his brain. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he imagined it. Surely not, he thought.
‘And which way did they go?’ Ertas said, breaking into Tallis’s thoughts.
‘Heading for the bridge.’
Ertas asked Tallis to repeat the conversation he’d shared with Morello. Tallis gave an edited account. He wasn’t going to mention Kevin Napier or the Serious and Organised Crime Agency. As far as Ertas was concerned, he and Morello had been two Brits who’d happened to run into each other, chums passing the time of day. Happened all the time.
‘Did Mr Morello have any enemies?’
‘I wouldn’t know but, I guess, in his line of work you can’t rule anything out.’ Tallis remembered the mezeeating Russians. Garry had written a book. Had he pissed someone off? He floated the idea. Ertas seemed to file the information away. Again, Tallis had the sensation that Ertas knew something he didn’t.
‘Whose idea was it to meet at the Byzantine?’
‘Mr Morello’s.’
‘Did you know it’s a hangout for the criminal fraternity?’
‘I didn’t, no.’ So that was it, Tallis thought. Made perfect sense. The cops had already got a line going there. Probably explained why Ertas was so suspicious of him and how the police had got there so quickly. ‘Perhaps there lies your answer.’
Ertas gave him a slow-eyed response. ‘A line of enquiry to follow, certainly. I noticed from your passport that you have spent almost three weeks here.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘In Istanbul?’
‘No.’ Tallis told Ertas about his sailing trip on the gulet and then his week of resort-hopping via taxi to Marmaris and Bodrum and finally the coach ride to Ephesus, one of the greatest ruined cities in the Western world. Images of colonnaded marble streets, intense heat and dust, the threefloored library with its secret passage to the brothel, and the Gate of Hercules, which formed the entrance to Curetes Street, flashed through Tallis’s mind. Everywhere there’d been reminders of Ephesus’s past. It was reputed that if the city’s torches were not lit, Ephesus was in peril.
‘And when are you planning to return?’
When I’ve got what I came for, Tallis thought. ‘Not made my mind up yet.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Bir saniye lutfen.’ Just a moment, please, Ertas said, getting up. ‘So you say you’ve been in the city here for the past week?’
He was really labouring the time factor, Tallis thought. He guessed Ertas appreciated accuracy so he gave it to him.
‘Five days.’
‘Five days,’ Ertas repeated. ‘Where are you staying?’ Ertas asked, opening the door.
‘The Celal Sultan Hotel.’
The skinny police officer with the sallow, sweating features was standing on the threshold. He handed Ertas a note. Ertas took it, thanked the man, closed the door and, thoughtfulness in his expression, sat back down. ‘We will not be releasing the details of this afternoon’s incident,’ he told Tallis. What he meant, Tallis thought, was that they would not be releasing the identity of the victim. If it was suspected that Garry had been the wrong target, the police didn’t want the killers coming back for a second crack at it. Probably a sensible precaution, or…
Something inside him buckled. What if he was wrong? What if someone had got it in for him? He immediately discounted his current connection with Asim, his MI5 handler, as a factor—all he’d done was keep his ear to the ground, visit certain places, clock faces, all low-key. He was playing the original grey man—most intelligence gathering was mundane, quiet and unassuming. He’d done nothing to stir up that kind of violent response, but it was perfectly conceivable that others from his past might bear him a grudge.
‘Are you all right, Mr Miller?’
‘What? Oh sure,’ Tallis replied.
The phone rang. Ertas picked up. ‘Right,’ Ertas said, standing up.
‘That it?’ Tallis said, making a move.
‘For now, but, please, no need to get up. I understand there is someone from the embassy to see you.’
Jeremy Cardew was not Tallis’s idea of an official from the consulate. From the name alone, he’d expected a louchelooking middle-aged individual, dressed in creased linen, with an expanded belly and public-school accent. This bloke was probably not much older than Tallis, whippetthin and, as it turned out, originally from Newcastle, which explained the Geordie accent. He had pale, penetrating eyes that assured Tallis he was a man given to action. After the swift exchange of names, and handshakes, Tallis explained his situation. Cardew’s expression became one of growing concern. He’d barely finished before Cardew started quizzing him as effectively as Ertas then, like a rabid trade-union official of the old school, launched into a low-down on procedure, outlining what he as an embassy official was empowered to do—help with issuing replacement passports, providing local information, assisting individuals with mental illness, helping British victims of crime and, more relevantly Tallis thought, ‘doing all we can should you be detained’.
The list of what they couldn’t do was shorter but of more consequence. ‘Can’t give you legal advice, I’m afraid,’ Cardew pointed out. ‘Neither can we help with getting you out of prison, prevent the local authorities from deporting you after sentence or interfere with criminal proceedings.’
Tallis folded his arms. ‘Looks like I fall outside all the categories.’
‘They’re not keeping you, then?’ Cardew’s expression was not one of disappointment exactly, more surprise.
‘I’m free to go,’ Tallis assured him.
‘And you had no problems with the police?’
‘None at all.’
‘You’ve given a statement?’
It felt like several. ‘Yes.’
‘You’ve clearly been through a most traumatic experience,’ Cardew said, with what felt like genuine concern, ‘but, from what you’re saying, it looks as though you have the situation under control.’
Hardly, Tallis thought. He was having a hard time coming to terms with Garry’s violent death. Inside, he was churning with emotions.
‘Just thought you should be made aware of my circumstances. For my own protection,’ Tallis added.
Cardew’s features fell into a quizzical frown. ‘Turkey’s moved on a lot since Midnight Express.’
A film about an American student arrested in Turkey for carrying hashish, Tallis remembered. The scenes of prison brutality were chilling. ‘I’m sure it has, but—’
‘When the police have finished with you, my advice would be to get the next flight back.’
Tallis met the other man’s eye. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘Then