had done centuries ago. His inherited estates and titles going back a thousand years made it all possible. There were few others who had the ambition, money and connections to make this thing happen. His time was coming.
His phone beeped. He picked it up from the marble table. A scrambled message icon was flashing. He pressed at it. Letters scrolled in front of him.
The siren of an ambulance sounded below. He put the phone down, peered over the railing. Shadows were milling around the ambulance. All the powerless larvae.
Everything they’d known was about to change. There were just a few things to fix now, and Malach could take care of those, easily. He’d proved long ago that he enjoyed such tasks.
We arrived at one of the British Consulate’s guest apartments after midnight, and it was past 1:00 AM before I closed my eyes in one of the spartan, marble-floored bedrooms.
I didn’t sleep well. A few hours after drifting off I sat up and looked around, memories of being shot at playing through my mind. I felt angry as the early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. The air in the room was humid and already heavy. I’d turned off the air conditioning unit by the window before going to sleep.
One question had lodged in my mind. Were those bastards still looking for me?
The apartment had a balcony with a stunning view. Not surprising, I suppose, seeing as how it was on the tenth floor and overlooking where the glittering Sea of Marmara met the choppy Bosphorus channel.
I had a shower in the small bathroom attached to my room. I stayed longer than usual, as the tension of the last twelve hours dissipated into the water. When I was dry and dressed I went out onto the balcony.
The far shore of the Bosphorus, the Asian side of Istanbul, literally another continent, swam far off, in the early morning heat haze. Directly in front of me a variety of ships, freighters and tankers were making their way in two distinct lines, like foam-flecked water insects, travelling into and out of the sun-dappled channel of the Bosphorus.
Isabel had told me the night before that the apartment block overlooked the old Byzantine port of Bucoleon, the sea port that had served the Roman Emperor Justinian’s imperial palace. The shimmering sea and infinite azure sky must have been as alluring back then as they were now.
As I was admiring the view, Isabel joined me. She was carrying a tray with croissants, butter, jam, coffee, warm milk and pale brown sugar.
Her black hair was undone, flowing over her shoulders, but she still looked businesslike. And her expression was serious.
‘Did you sleep?’ she said.
‘Sure, every time I get shot at, almost kidnapped, I sleep like a baby.’
‘It’ll make a good story for your grandchildren.’
‘If I ever have any.’ I poured coffee for the both of us, then tasted mine. It was strong, black, just what I needed. I ate a croissant.
‘What about the police? Are you going to call them?’ I asked, as I poured myself some more coffee. I’d been wondering whether we should have reported what had happened already.
‘We’ll tell them at the appropriate time. What we’re concerned about first is your security.’
‘Why didn’t you shoot back at those bastards last night?’
She was gazing out to sea.
‘I don’t carry a gun, Sean. I’m not James bloody Bond. This is not a movie.’
I could smell salty sea air as a welcome breeze wafted up to us.
‘Having pitched battles in the street isn’t the way we operate here.’
‘Have you any new ideas about who those guys were?’
‘No, and we don’t jump to conclusions. Everyone with a grudge is taking their chances these days. Perhaps you have some new idea?’
‘You gotta be joking,’ I said. ‘That was like Grand Theft: Istanbul last night.’
She stared at a giant red oil tanker that had left a flotilla of ships moored out in the Sea of Marmara. The tanker was proceeding slowly towards the channel of the Bosphorus. Isabel sat down on one of the cushioned wicker chairs facing out to sea and pulled her long legs up under her, as if she was about to do yoga. Her black sweatpants and skintight black T-shirt made her look like a gym instructor. I stayed standing, taking in the view.
‘Some tankers wait a week to get through these straits,’ she said.
We sat in silence for a minute.
‘I didn’t expect that last night,’ I said.
‘The Turks are among the kindest people in the world, Sean. They’re welcoming, warm and giving, almost to a fault.’ She stretched her arms above her head. ‘What happened to you I have never seen happen to any visitor here.’ She sipped at her coffee.
‘We’re very concerned, Sean.’ She put her coffee cup down. ‘Alek’s death has been linked to a threat against the United Kingdom.’
‘What?’ I recoiled.
She stared out to sea. The heat was growing stronger by the minute, as the sun climbed in the sky. Home felt a long way away.
‘There’s a video clip on the Internet already. It shows Alek’s beheading.’ She was talking fast now. ‘It also contains a threat to bring Armageddon to London.’ She paused, as if to give time for what she’d said to sink in.
‘We’ve had a lot of this stuff in the past year, what with everything that’s going on. The nuts like to come out together. So we won’t be panicking, but we have to follow up every threat. So I need to know if there’s anything else you can tell me, which might help us to find the people who murdered Alek.’ She turned to look at me.
I stared back at her. Was this for real? Had Alek gotten himself caught up in something totally stupid?
‘If I knew anything that might help, I’d tell you. I would.’
‘I hope so.’
She stood up, went inside. In less than half a minute she was back, holding some photographs.
She placed the prints on the glass-topped dining table.
‘These images were on that storage device,’ she said.
I bent over, looked at them. There was a page of thumbnails and two images printed out full size. The thumbnails were images of mosaics in Hagia Sophia. I scanned them quickly. The only ones not clearly from Hagia Sophia were the two that had been blown up and the photo of Alek with Isabel.
The two photos she had printed out full size were the ones I’d left in the hotel room, which had been in the envelope. They must have meant something for Alek to have had them printed out. But what?
‘Can you tell me anything about these photos?’ Isabel pointed at the two prints.
I looked at them closely. ‘They’re not part of our project. That’s all I can say.’
She pulled one of the chairs forward and sat down.
‘OK, let’s go back to the beginning,’ she said. ‘Did your project include work in any excavations or tunnels under Hagia Sophia?’
‘No, not all.’ I was sitting opposite her, facing the sun.
‘Then why does this picture look like it was taken under- ground?’
‘I have no idea. Our project is about the mosaics that are on public view. And anyway, we did a lot of research on Hagia Sophia and there are no crypts under it, nothing like this.’ I pointed at the pictures. ‘There’s just a few drainage tunnels. No one has ever found mosaics under Hagia Sophia.’