bloke was a victim of some assassin with a macabre sense of history. Beyond, there was open ground and the entrance to the Palace. Not a great welcome for the tourists in the morning, Tallis thought, brain spinning like three rows in a fruit machine. That left the Rose Garden, his firm favourite for a shallow grave but too far to cart a body. He gave an urgent glance to his left. There wasn’t much more than a triangle of trees, but it was the best place. The only place.
Dead men were heavy, but Tallis picked the stiff up with relative ease. There was little blood due to the trajectory of the blade—Tallis took care not to disturb or remove it—and though acutely conscious of Lockard’s principle—every contact left a trace—he knew that his DNA was unlikely to be stored on a Turkish database. The British system stood head and shoulders above anything in Europe, which was why fast-track plans to automatically share information were already in place, but that did not include countries bordering the Middle East.
Dumping the body where the trees grew more thickly, Tallis wiped the shaft of the blade. That only left the weapon, which was of professional interest to him. Russian, slim for easy concealment, it was a simple blowback pistol, the PSM, reputed to have remarkable penetrative powers, particularly against body armour. Intended for Russian security forces, it had resurfaced and become available on the black market in Central Europe. Tallis picked it up with a handkerchief and put it next to its owner.
Hugging the side of the path, he retraced his steps back the way he’d come. Once, just once, he felt a shiver of fear that there was someone else in the shadows. He neither stopped, nor looked, but kept on walking. Out onto the street again, he thought about taking a detour to the Cemberlitas Baths near Constantine’s Column. There he could have the equivalent of a steam clean, the best way to rid himself of the odour of death, but it was already fast approaching midnight, the time the baths closed. Adrenalin flooding his nervous system, he strode back the short distance to the hotel.
Back in his room, he ripped off his clothes, threw them into a carrier bag and chucked them into his suitcase. He’d get rid of them in the morning. He showered until his skin stung and put on a clean pair of trousers. After a quick exploration of the mini-bar and coming up empty, he picked up a phone and ordered a bottle of raki, a jug of water, and a pide, a flatbread with salami and cheese. Room service wasn’t part of the package. It was only a three-star hotel. But, in reality, money bought anything.
The food arrived. Tallis offered enough notes to ensure both the porter’s discretion and gratitude. After he’d closed and locked the door, he ate and drank slowly, without pleasure, food and alcohol the best cure for the terrible nausea that followed the taking of a life. While he chewed and drank, his mind brimmed with questions, ranging from burning curiosity about the man he’d killed to how long it would take before the body was discovered. He came to no firm conclusions.
After a fitful night’s sleep, partly as the result of the incredibly high temperature, partly because he was still coming down from his adrenalin fix, Tallis got up, packed up some things and left the hotel shortly before eight in the morning, the carrier bag containing the contaminated clothes swinging idly from his hand.
A saffron-coloured sun beat down hard upon him. Within minutes, his shirt was stuck to his back and perspiration was oozing in a constant trickle from his brow. Heat was doing funny things to his vision. Colours seemed more vivid, shapes less defined. Pavement, buildings, cars looked as though they might burst into flames.
His destination was Eminonu, a port bustling with traders keen to sell goods or offer trips up the Bosphorus. A cooling breeze usually blew in off the water but not today. A small podgy individual with down-turned eyes caught Tallis’s attention. For some reason he had no takers even though the small boat he was chartering looked sturdy enough. Expecting to haggle, Tallis spoke in English and asked how much for a two-hour trip. Predictably, Podgy named his price, which was eye-wateringly high. Tallis immediately offered half. Podgy looked insulted. Tallis shrugged. Podgy broke into a grin, a sign that he considered Tallis a worthy adversary, and offered him a cold drink. Tallis accepted with a gracious smile. All part of the game. He discovered that the little man was called Kerim. ‘Look, Kerim,’ Tallis said, feeling the delicious chill of ice-cold water at the back of his throat, ‘no need to do the full trip. How about you take me as far as the Fortress of Europe and I’ll get the bus back?’
Kerim clutched a hand to his chest as though he was having a heart attack, shook his head, his expression dolorous. ‘Not good. I have expensive wife.’ His Turkish accent was as thick as the coffee.
Tallis let out a laugh. ‘More fool you.’
‘And many, many children,’ Kerim said, face forlorn.
Christ, the bloke could win a BAFTA, Tallis thought. ‘All right,’ he said, feigning sympathy. ‘Full trip, there and back with a twenty-minute stop at the Fortress.’
‘Is better,’ Kerim said, significantly brightening up.
‘And something else,’ Tallis said, lowering his voice.
‘I very quiet,’ Kerim said, pointing to his mouth. ‘I say nothing.’
You’d better not, pal, Tallis thought, jaw grinding at the terrible yet calculated risk he was about to take. Kerim leant in close, allowing Tallis to explain what he wanted the little man to do, that there would be a great deal of money paid if he looked after something he was about to give him, but dire consequences, not only for him but for his family, should he default, then he offered a little more than his original sum for the trip, which, like the good businessman Kerim was, he accepted with a small bow.
Rumeli Hisari was a maze of steep, narrow cobblestone streets leading to tranquil Muslim cemeteries in a fortress setting. Everywhere were reminders of its fifteenth-century past, and the grand plans of Mehmet the Conqueror in his quest to take Constantinople. Much as Tallis adored history, he couldn’t have been less interested. He was looking for a suitable place to get rid of his carrier bag full of clothes. In a little less than ten minutes, he found it. Although most hotel and restaurant lavatories were of the modern flush design, public conveniences remained stubbornly old-fashioned, of the squat-over-the-slot variety. Setting aside any squeamishness, he took out his belongings and thrust them deep into the bowels of the latrine. Nobody in their right mind would try to retrieve them. Ten minutes later, he was back on the boat, allowing his offending arm to trail in the deep and narrow waters of the Bosphorus.
After checking and booking a KLM flight out of Ataturk to Spain, part of a set of precautionary measures following the killing and the previous night’s excitement, he spent the rest of the day lying low, eating a simple meal in the hotel restaurant before retiring to bed early. Deeply asleep, he was suddenly alerted to someone hammering on his door. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, dragging on a pair of boxers, instantly awake. ‘Who is it?’
‘Polis!’
Tallis glanced at his watch. It said two-twenty in the morning. ‘You got ID?’ he called out.
More banging.
He took a deep breath, opened the door a crack, clocking two men in plain clothes flanked by two police officers with firearms. Shit. He opened his mouth to say something. The door burst open. An outstretched fist shot out. Connecting.
Next stop darkness.
5
TALLIS came round feeling muzzy. Half-naked, feet bare, handcuffed, he was lying flat on his back on a piece of thin cardboard. His mouth was dry, as if it were laminated, and his temple throbbed with a viciousness he’d only experienced once before in his life after getting legless, at the age of
