the south and east wasn’t all Dandolo was after,’ said the detective-major. ‘I need to do just a little more digging myself, but I’ll show you tomorrow. And the rest of the story can be explained better when you see for yourselves what we’ve got.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But not tonight. I have preparations to make, and other business to attend to before I wend my weary way home to my wife and family.’ He raised a hand to silence their objections. ‘Please. You are – as I think you say – on my turf now, and you must allow me to be the best judge of how we proceed. We will need hours tomorrow, and even people like us cannot function efficiently without rest. I’ll send you a mail which will be on your laptops by the time you return to your hotel. I hope you left them in the safe there if you didn’t bring them with you. This can be a very light-fingered city. Yes? Good.’ He rang the bell again and the first discreet young man immediately materialized. ‘Zafer: organize some transport for these two good people back to the Four Seasons.’
It was a different yellow cab this time – a Toyota – anda different driver. This one drove steadily and did not speak, nor was any fare discussed. But he kept glancing in the rear-view mirror, and from the expression on his face he saw something he didn’t like. He took a couple of turns down side-streets which clearly weren’t leading them by any direct route to the hotel, and looked in the mirror again.
‘
Boktan
,’ he muttered. Without looking at his passengers, he added in English, ‘Sit tight.’
11
It had stopped raining, but the roads were still slick and wet, and the pollution in the air which the rain had caught in falling had made them slippery too. The driver picked up a little speed, then abruptly did a handbrake turn, spinning the car round 180 degrees before steadying it among a fanfare of angry horns from other vehicles and, ramming it into a lower gear, roaring off up Babiali Cadessi in the direction of the Galata Bridge.
But the black van that was following them was fast too. It swung in behind them. There could be no doubt now.
Their driver turned west again on Nuruosmaniye and then south, crisscrossing the network of streets in Emin Sinan and Mimar Hayrettin, tearing down them as the people on the streets scattered and yelled. The van hammered behind them, smashing into a trader’s stall in a cascade of fake Rolexes. They continued on, hurtling through streets barely wide enough to take the vehicles, the lights of their pursuer shining into their car as Marlow and Graves hunched down and pulled out their guns.
Marlow manoeuvred himself to look out of the rear window and could see a figure leaning out of the front passenger window holding what looked like an Uzi sub-machine gun, but as he levelled it, the van hit a pothole too deep even for its tyres to take. The big vehicle jolted and the gunman, braced hard against the window frame,snapped like a twig, dropping his weapon. The van swerved on to the pavement, rending its side on the stonework of the buildings which lined it, then swung round in a skid and came to a halt.
Their cab pulled off down a dark alley which twisted so much it hardly seemed possible for the car to take its turns, but after a while it broadened. The driver rammed the car round a corner into a courtyard, jammed on the brakes, killed the engine and doused the lights.
All three of them sat silently, catching their breath and listening to the uninterrupted roar of the distant traffic. The driver turned in his seat, pistol out, and watched keenly through the rear window. Then the tension left his shoulders.
‘Got the
amciklari
,’ he said, though his voice was still tight. He looked at them. ‘Better get you some other transport. This car’s no good now.’
He dug out his mobile phone and punched a key and was soon talking urgently to someone at the other end.
Twenty minutes later, at a quarter past
It was a different yellow cab this time – a Toyota – anda different driver. This one drove steadily and did not speak, nor was any fare discussed. But he kept glancing in the rear-view mirror, and from the expression on his face he saw something he didn’t like. He took a couple of turns down side-streets which clearly weren’t leading them by any direct route to the hotel, and looked in the mirror again.
‘
Boktan
,’ he muttered. Without looking at his passengers, he added in English, ‘Sit tight.’
11
It had stopped raining, but the roads were still slick and wet, and the pollution in the air which the rain had caught in falling had made them slippery too. The driver picked up a little speed, then abruptly did a handbrake turn, spinning the car round 180 degrees before steadying it among a fanfare of angry horns from other vehicles and, ramming it into a lower gear, roaring off up Babiali Cadessi in the direction of the Galata Bridge.
But the black van that was following them was fast too. It swung in behind them. There could be no doubt now.
Their driver turned west again on Nuruosmaniye and then south, crisscrossing the network of streets in Emin Sinan and Mimar Hayrettin, tearing down them as the people on the streets scattered and yelled. The van hammered behind them, smashing into a trader’s stall in a cascade of fake Rolexes. They continued on, hurtling through streets barely wide enough to take the vehicles, the lights of their pursuer shining into their car as Marlow and Graves hunched down and pulled out their guns.
Marlow manoeuvred himself to look out of the rear window and could see a figure leaning out of the front passenger window holding what looked like an Uzi sub-machine gun, but as he levelled it, the van hit a pothole too deep even for its tyres to take. The big vehicle jolted and the gunman, braced hard against the window frame,snapped like a twig, dropping his weapon. The van swerved on to the pavement, rending its side on the stonework of the buildings which lined it, then swung round in a skid and came to a halt.
Their cab pulled off down a dark alley which twisted so much it hardly seemed possible for the car to take its turns, but after a while it broadened. The driver rammed the car round a corner into a courtyard, jammed on the brakes, killed the engine and doused the lights.
All three of them sat silently, catching their breath and listening to the uninterrupted roar of the distant traffic. The driver turned in his seat, pistol out, and watched keenly through the rear window. Then the tension left his shoulders.
‘Got the
amciklari
,’ he said, though his voice was still tight. He looked at them. ‘Better get you some other transport. This car’s no good now.’
He dug out his mobile phone and punched a key and was soon talking urgently to someone at the other end.
Twenty minutes later, at a quarter past
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