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 I suggest, Mr Miller,’ Cardew said slowly, his voice tight and strained, ‘stay out of trouble.’
‘Right,’ Tallis said, meeting Cardew’s steely gaze. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’
3
TALLIS returned to the Celal Sultan, a pretty, traditional town house in the old city centre, not far from the Blue Mosque and Topkapi Palace. He took a circuitous route, as he’d done since his arrival, variously taking a cab one way, tram back the other, and finally walking to check for and shake off any possible tail. His fully air-conditioned room, Moroccan in style, was a familiar and welcome relief. Now that he was in the privacy of his own space, he seriously felt in need of a drink. Garry’s death had left him stunned. But, in his heart, he knew that alcohol, far from further deadening his senses, would only bring his emotions roaring to the fore. He couldn’t take that risk. Stripping off, he shaved then took a long, cool shower and considered the day’s events.
He still clung to the thought that, horrible though it was, Garry had been the target rather than himself. Tallis couldn’t think of anyone offhand who bore him a grudge and, even if they did, he believed that if someone were going to kill him, they’d attempt it back in the homeland, not here in Turkey. Why go to the trouble? Only one major spike in that theory: the killers were British.
He turned the shower to cold, feeling a pleasurable cascade of water across his skin, and tested out his theory on the ethnicity of the killers. That shout he’d heard amidst the chaos was as captured in his mind as the memory of Belle’s smile. As sure as he could be, he’d heard the words ‘…fuckin’ out of here’. Not Turkish, not any other nationality, Anglo-Saxon, pure and simple. At least one of those guys was definitely British.
As far as his current activities were concerned, he was simply maintaining a watching brief. Since the new man, a former grammar-school boy, had taken over MI5, there had been a significant change in direction, which meant that people like him could play a role. Some called it privatisation of the security services, and something to be feared and resisted. All he knew was it gave him gainful employment. He wasn’t officially on the books, never would be. He was more mercenary than spook, a necessary evil and, he had no illusions, expendable. He tilted his face up towards the showerhead, opening his eyes wide, thinking about the brief and exploring the suspected link between terrorism and British organised crime. The hardcore terrorist relied more on the spoken word to transmit information than the written, and it was generally carried out person to person rather than via an easily traceable phone line or computer. So far he thought he’d stumbled across nothing significant, but the killing at the café changed everything. Ertas, by his manner, had given the game away.
Tallis turned off the shower, ran a hand through his hair and reached for a towel. He rubbed himself dry, caught sight of his lean, deeply tanned and muscular reflection in the mirror. He was probably in better physical shape than he’d been for a couple of years thanks to some fairly serious working out. Mentally, he still pushed all the buttons. Only the slightly haunted look in his dark eyes spoke of a man who’d lost the very person he needed to live for. Belle, he thought, what I wouldn’t give to see you again, to hear your voice, to hold you. Christ, it’s so damn lonely here on my own.
Dressed again, he took out a hunting knife from underneath the clothes in the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d bought it from a trader, no questions asked, after a memorable visit to Gemiler Island where, long ago, legend spoke of an albino queen who’d lived there. To protect her from the blistering sun, the islanders had built a walkway, hewing out the solid rock so that she could walk freely from the temple at the top of the island down to the sea. Tallis had followed the trail, chipped and crumbling now from the tread of many pairs of feet, and marvelled at such devotion. Tombs embedded on either side gave it a spooky feel.
Back on the gulet once more and only a few metres out to sea, he’d heard the familiar
