from sweet and savoury pancakes and ice cream to rugs and painstakingly embroidered scarves or oyali, and neckerchiefs. Except this boat and its wares were different. The woman, sure enough, was selling legitimate goods. Her gypsy-looking colleague, however, after some minor probing, was in the market for what he called ancient ornamental weapons. Four inches long, with a wide stainless-steel blade ground to a deadly point, the knife was neither ancient nor ornamental but it was more than enough to frighten, maim or kill. Not that Tallis harboured malign intent. Just wanted back-up. He flicked the blade open and closed it again with lightning speed, one-handed. The knife felt solid in his grip yet light to carry. Perfect. With the same minimum of fuss as when he’d made the purchase, he slipped it into the pocket of his chinos, and went down to the dining room where he ate a delicious dinner of karniyarik, stuffed aubergines, followed by grilled trout, and headed back out onto the street.
It was steamy as hell outside, the Turkish night asphalt black and starless. Street lamps lighting his way, he headed away from the main tourist area of Sultanahmet towards Constantine’s Column. From there he took a tram out to the massive covered Grand Bazaar with its painted vaults, and streets studded with booths and shopkeepers as pushy and relentless as any City trader. Here, all manner of commercial human activity was at work. He felt as if he was at the centre of a large ant nest, lots of rushing about, even though most of the actual manufacturing and trading was carried out in the hans or storage depots, tucked away behind gated entrances, shaded and concealed. Finding it hard to get his bearings in spite of the profusion of signposts, he allowed himself to be carried along with the flow, through Feraceciler Sok, passing cafés and restaurants with local diners, and ancient copper and marble fountains dispensing fresh water. He skirted the oldest part of the bazaar, veering left and coming to an Oriental kiosk, which had been built as a coffee house in the seventeenth century but now served as a jewellery shop. Left again, he cruised down a street of carpet and textile shops. Overhead, Turkish flags hung with the familiar crescent moon and stars, a reminder and symbol of national pride. After pushing through a scrum of bargain-hunters, he eventually found himself at the entrance to the largest han in Istanbul, the Valide Hani. Beyond lay the Spice Bazaar, inside this the café and last place he’d seen Garry Morello alive.
By returning to the scene of crime, he didn’t really expect to discover anything, the trip more a means to jog his memory and get things straight in his head. Voyeurs and the naturally curious had gathered outside the spot. Someone, he noticed, had laid flowers at the perimeter. Sealed off by white crime-scene tape, a single boredlooking policeman on duty outside, the café was over-run by Turkish Scenes of Crime Officers, their distinctive forensic suits declaring that they were part of an international club. Christ, he thought, guts turning to water, why did he feel so lashed by memories? Before joining the Forensic Science Unit, Belle had once been a SOCO. It was partly the reason he’d elicited her help in a previous case, that and the fact he hadn’t been able to live without her. He felt a spasm of regret and grief shoot through his body. Perhaps, if he hadn’t involved her, he thought blindly, she’d still be alive.
Tallis turned away, partly to shield his face from an embarrassing tear in his right eye, partly to maintain a low profile. At once, he spotted a familiar countenance. Dark eyes met. You, Tallis thought, watching as the stranger unlocked his gaze and walked purposefully away. Tallis observed the smaller man’s retreating form, waited, counted to ten and dropped into casual step behind him. Only two reasons he could think of to explain why the man who’d left the café so abruptly had suddenly turned up on the scene: curiosity or involvement. Or—Tallis felt something flicker inside—it boiled down to the curved ball theory. He, like Tallis, was simply caught up in someone else’s game. Happened all the time.
They were heading west along Cami Meydani Sok, running parallel to Galata Bridge before breaking off into the sort of quiet and narrow streets where you might get your throat cut. Tallis could tell from the way the man was walking that he knew full well he was being tailed. He seemed to be moving in no specific direction, crossing, recrossing and doubling back, all classic anti-surveillance tactics. The law of averages dictated that he had the advantage. Single tails always carried a high risk of exposure.
The man suddenly leapt onto a tram. Thinking he might be heading for Sirkeci station, Tallis clambered into the next car after him. Like all trams, it was clean and fully air-conditioned, a triumph of Turkish engineering and the speediest method to get around in a city like Istanbul. Tallis paid the driver and sat down, keeping his eyes pinned, and rearranged his thinking—thinking that was based on many years’ experience of bad guys. He didn’t doubt that the stranger in the tramcar was probably one of them, up to no good, sure, but not necessarily connected to the hit in the café. So he was taking one hell of a risk by reinserting himself at the scene. He’d have been better off lying low. Tallis smiled to himself. So you are involved somehow, somewhere. More obliquely, he wondered whether this man was also the very type of person he’d come to spy on, one of the many faceless Islamic terrorists, the masterminds, the ghosts, those who had no profile on any security service database.
The tram passed the stop for the station and was continuing in the direction of the Celal Sultan Hotel. Either by accident or design, Tallis felt as if he was coming full circle. Had it been light he would have seen more clearly the painted wooden houses lining the street. As it was, he saw nothing but the glint and glow from sitting rooms and lighted cigarettes. Then the motion of the tram began to change. It was slowing. Sixth sense told him that his man would make a move. Tallis held back, watching and waiting for signs of his quarry. Sure enough, he slipped out and darted through a hole in a hedge and into the outer grounds of Topkapi Palace. Tallis followed him, catching his shirt on a wooded thicket. Cursing as he ripped himself free, he discovered he was standing alone in what looked to be an old rose garden. Shaded by overgrown bushes and plants, the place had a neglected air, making it a perfect rendezvous for lovers or thieves. That he was walking into a trap became a distinct possibility. He looked around him, listened. Pale moonlight sifted down through a sky of banked cloud and suppressed heat, lighting his way.
Then he saw him. No more than twenty metres in front, his man was moving at a slow trot along a designated walkway, towards the palace. Time to change the dynamics, Tallis thought. ‘Merhaba!’ Hello, he called out. The man quickened his step, broke into a run. Tallis kicked off the back foot and sprinted after him, ducking and weaving to avoid being lashed in the face by several overhanging branches. Shorter, the man darted with a quick zip of speed, off the main path and across another piece of woodland, feet pounding the uneven ground, but he didn’t have the staying power, something at which Tallis excelled. He called out again, shouted a reassurance, he only wanted to talk. Still the bloke kept running, jinking through the wooded grounds, giving the strong impression that he knew the place well, that he was heading for a rat run. Then, without warning, he ran back onto the main path, across a square, screeching to a halt, and turned, his face and form illuminated by a shaft of light from a tremulous moon. Hand reaching, face cold as antique marble, lips drawn back in a pale snarl.
Tallis made a rapid calculation. The bloke was carrying. And he was prepared to open fire. Automatically, twisting to one side, Tallis drew out the knife, simultaneously flicking it open, just as the tell-tale glint of gunmetal swung and homed in on him.
His attacker stood no chance. Before he’d even got off a shot, he was falling. The blade had flown through the air, sliced into and stuck fast in his throat.
4
THE man’s death rattle was mercifully short but noisy and terrifying. Tallis glanced around, checking first that he was alone—yes—then searched the body for identification, picking out both a wallet and passport that identified his victim as a Turk by the name of Mehmet Kurt, born in 1977. Next, Tallis looked for a place to conceal the body. He didn’t have great options. All he could do was buy time. Ironically, several metres away lay the Executioner’s Fountain, the place where, long ago, the executioner washed his hands and sword after a public beheading.
Tallis
