church?’ He knew his stuff.
‘The first Christian church on the site was probably built in 351.’
Isabel looked amused.
‘Yes,’ said Peter, drily. ‘Hagia Sophia is one of the foundation churches of Christianity.’ His right hand slapped his armrest. ‘And it’s the best of them by far. Don’t some people say it’ll be returned to Christianity one day?’ He looked at me innocently.
Was he trying to trap me? I didn’t reply.
‘So you don’t go along with all this Christian revival thing, do you, Sean?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t know anything about the stories in the Turkish papers?’
‘No.’
I felt myself getting irritated. Not only was he asking too many questions, I was also beginning to feel boxed in with his long legs blocking access to the corridor.
‘If any of those journalists poked into the dusty corners of your life, Sean, would they find anything … smelly?’
Now he was really annoying me. I shook my head, fast. ‘Not a single thing. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing.’
‘Not that it would be just journalists doing the investigating,’ he said, gesturing towards Isabel and himself. His tone was haughty, detached, as if he knew things I didn’t.
He looked me in the eye and smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘There’s going to be a lot of interest in this story over the next few days, Sean. It’ll blow over, of course, but until then every blogger in Europe will be looking for an angle on Alek’s death. I do hope you’re not hiding any nasty little secrets.’
‘How many times do I have to repeat myself?’ I said. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ I raised my hands, held them in the air, palms forward, as if I was going to push him and his accusations away.
He rubbed at his trousers, fixed the crease.
‘I understand you’re upset, Sean, but this story has real legs. I don’t know if Isabel warned you, but all the security services, MI5, and 6, and all the rest, they do an under-every-stone trawl in cases like this. And if they do find anything funny, I must tell you, unofficially, they’re not beyond a little bit of mild torture, given what we’re up against now.’ He put his hands together, then braced them on his knees. ‘When it comes to defending our country we do get a bit of leeway these days, you know. But I’m sure you’ve nothing to hide.’
Was he joking? I’d imagined the local police in Oxford going around to the Institute, asking a few questions. Not a platoon of security service types trawling through every chapter of my life.
‘I told you,’ I said. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
The cabin was quiet except for the rumble of the plane’s engine.
‘So there’s nothing you want to tell us?’
‘Not a thing,’ I said, emphatically.
‘Very good,’ said Peter. The atmosphere changed from Artic cool to warmish again.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘I do hope so.’ He leaned back, drummed his fingers on the arm rest.
He clearly enjoyed playing games with people. I’d never liked people like that. Isabel seemed irritated too.
I looked out the window. I could see snow capped mountains far below. The sun was high in the sky. There was a blue shimmer of sea far off to our right. I got a strange feeling. That was where the landmass of Europe should have been.
What route were we taking?
‘Spectacular view, isn’t it?’ said Peter.
‘What mountains are they?’ I said.
‘Sorry, I’m no good at all that stuff. But they are beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘Now, about this mosaic,’ he said, in a softer tone. ‘I have to tell you there’s no record of such a mosaic anywhere in Istanbul or in all Turkey.’ He stretched his legs out into the passageway.
‘Which means it has to be from some undiscovered site. Mosaics were popular in the Roman Empire. They had to find a way to brighten their homes, I suppose.’ He sat up straighter.
‘I wonder what this old priest will tell us,’ said Peter.
Isabel brushed hair from her face.
‘Peter’s been busy trying to find out who was shooting at us last night,’ she said. Her tone made it sound as if she was trying to sell Peter to me.
‘Great, any news?’
‘A little,’ said Peter. ‘Somebody’s been trying to track the Consulate’s Range Rovers. That was what you were driving last night, Isabel, wasn’t it?’
Isabel nodded.
‘Well, someone went and hacked the systems at Istanbul’s Range Rover service centre early this morning. Whoever is after you is serious, Sean.’ He was looking out the window now.
‘What sort of people do this kind of thing?’ I said.
‘There are a number of small groups that might be involved. There are a lot of refugees in Istanbul. We’ve been keeping an eye on them, but it’s a big city and things are changing fast.’
He reached over, took an orange juice from the cooler bag and drank from it.
‘The Turks are blaming the whole thing on foreigners, of course.’ He gestured expansively. ‘They’re probably right.’
‘I’ll check what the news sites are saying,’ said Isabel.
She pulled a laptop from her briefcase, fired it up, hit a few keys, stared at the screen for a few minutes.
‘You don’t want to look at this.’
‘I want to.’
She passed the laptop to me. The browser window was filled with the BBC News website. The lead story, accompanied by a gruesome, but blurry image, was about Alek. What had happened to him was hitting the big time. I stared at the picture. It felt weird, as if I was watching someone else. This was too crazy.
Alek’s chin was down on his chest, his eyes hidden. He was strapped to a pillar. It was a still from that video I’d read about. I felt an urge to push the laptop away. I resisted. Then there was something catching in my throat. I put a hand to my mouth, kept it clamped shut as the sickening sensation passed. I wasn’t going to look away. That would be too easy.
The story underneath the picture read:
Beheading in Istanbul.
No one, so far, has claimed responsibility for the beheading of a Mr Alek Zegliwski, whose body was found in Istanbul on August 4. Turkish security experts are pointing the finger at a radical Islamic sect intent on the re-establishment of the Islamic Caliphate, which until 1924 was based at Hagia Sophia, where Mr Zegliwski was working. Re-establishing the Caliphate is a key goal for many Islamic fundamentalists.
The Arab script in the photo above Mr Zegliwski’s head, was, the article said, a threat to bring the war to London. Further on, the Turkish Prime Minister’s office had issued a statement saying arrests had been made that morning, and that the Turkish security services were following up a number of lines of enquiry.
‘This wasn’t supposed to happen,’ I said. I passed the laptop back to Isabel.
Peter took it, put it on his knee, read for a few minutes.
Then, he looked up from his screen and said, ‘The Turkish police raided known activists. They like to be seen to be taking action. I doubt they’ll find the people we’re looking for though.’ He