Gold of Kings (19 page)

R
ICHARD ELLIS HAD LONG CONSIDERED
himself a pastor without a home. Coming as it did from the number-two guy at the biggest church in one of America's richest cities, some people might have called that a little twisted. But working this place was sort of like living inside a diamond-studded cocoon. Richard had never been comfortable with the distance wealth put between himself and real life. Which was why he was happy staying relegated to the church's basement operations. And also why he had been so drawn to Sean Syrrell. The man had been as avaricious as a pirate.

Sean had never been held by the trappings of wealth. For Sean, money was just part of what it took to obtain the next prize. Given his surroundings, Richard had considered this a healthy disregard. He had found himself willing to overlook the man's shortcomings, which in Sean's case would have filled the National Archives. Memories of the man still brought him to a boil. Even though his heart limped from the loss.

Richard was the last to leave the church's activity building. He could have let the custodian lock up the place. But it was as good an excuse as any to hold back and let the crowds swirl away, chattering as they did over his latest gaffe. Tonight had supposedly been his night off, but the AA leader had phoned in sick. Which meant that Richard had been
there to greet a reformed alcoholic who had arrived completely smashed. Richard's tirade had drawn an audience from two floors up. The man had departed a good deal more sober than he had arrived.

Richard locked the doors and turned toward the night. He was becoming more angry more often these days. It happened every spring around this time, in the run-up to the anniversary of his wife's death. He had met Sean for the first time this very same week. Sean had snapped at him on the way out of church and Richard had blasted back. Then he'd been forced to explain why. Every spring that followed, Sean had made it a point to come down and treat Richard to a fine meal. Which made for another reason he missed the most irritating man Richard had ever known.

Then he saw the shadow flitter between the palms.

He didn't know who the shadow belonged to and he didn't care. What he did know was that the local newspaper was still headlining Palm Beach's version of the OK Corral. Richard had seen enough of the city's underbelly to have a healthy respect for shadows that flittered. He ran.

Richard's passion was long-distance running. He had done the Boston Marathon five times, and twice finished within an hour of the leader. Which was why, when he dropped his briefcase and jinked right before heading back across the lot, he thought if he could just make the front lawn he'd be safe. Few people could catch him in open-field running.

He almost made it. The oleander border that would have granted him shadows of his own was three paces away when the night became a fist and slammed him hard from behind.

Only after he hit the earth did he realize he had also heard a bang.

He fell on his side. It was an immensely uncomfortable position. Almost as uncomfortable as his inability to draw a decent breath.

The shadows did not fully coalesce. Instead, the moon overhead simply vanished, and in its place came a shape. Small and fast and strong. Richard felt hands grip his jacket and flip him onto his back. Which was the first time he actually felt pain.

A dark voice spoke with an accent so strong Richard could not make out the words. Not that it mattered.

Hands lifted and shook him hard enough for the pain to make him
focus. The voice spoke more slowly, spacing out the words. “The woman Syrrell. Where has she gone?”

Richard blinked. Of course the night spoke with an uncommon accent. It made all the sense in the world.

The man shook him again. But this time the pain could not reach him. To his right he had noticed another change to the gathering night. One that thrilled him so much he let go of the pain and everything else that held him down.

He knew with a certainty beyond all his dimming senses that his wife was standing and waiting for him.

He was shaken again. Hard. Richard knew this only because what was left of his vision passed through more tremors. He felt nothing at all.

He opened his mouth and tried to say,
Into your hands I commend my spirit.
Perhaps he actually spoke the words. It no longer mattered. Nothing earthly did.

S
TORM WOKE TO THE SOUND
of throbbing. She opened her eyes to brilliant sunlight. The throbbing noise came from just outside her windows. A boat passed by, momentarily cutting off the sunlight. Storm swung her feet to the floor and rubbed her eyes. The boat passed. Sunlight sparkled off the water that began just beyond her hotel windows. She padded to the bathroom, passing beneath a domed ceiling. She washed her face and returned to the bedroom. The water and the sunlight and the boats were all still there.

She picked up the phone and hit O. A voice came on and said, “
Effindim
.”

She stared out the window at another passing boat. “Harry Bennett's room.”

A pause, then, “Please?”

She remembered then. “Sorry. Mr. Smith.”

The line clicked, the phone rang, and Harry picked up like his hand was poised over the phone.

“We're really here, aren't we.”

“How did you sleep?”

“So well I don't know what day it is.”

“You've been out almost fourteen hours.”

They had arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport just after eleven in
the morning. As promised, a packet had been awaiting them at the Air France information desk. In it were two economy class tickets to Istanbul and the name of a hotel. Harry had noticed her expression and asked what was the matter.

Storm had replied, “The tickets are one-way.”

Harry had put it down as bureaucratic penny-pinching. But as Storm dressed, she found herself recalling that moment, and the sensation of holding a pass to some new and unnamed destiny from which there was no return.

After breakfast they walked down to the village harbor and boarded the ferry to central Istanbul. Storm sat on one of five long benches that ran the length of the boat's upper deck. The wind was both hot from the sun and chilled by the water. Harry stood by the bow reading a newspaper, swaying easily as a passing trawler rocked their ferry, totally in his element. Dark eyes observed her every move, but she did not feel threatened. A pair of hawkers plied the ferry passengers with tulip glasses of tea and sweetmeats. Their hotel gleamed on the retreating shore, a miniature palace built by an eighteenth-century emir. Their ferry passed beneath the first bridge spanning from the hills of Europe to the hills of Asia, a simple link that defied three thousand years of war and distrust and lies. Storm wrapped her arms about her middle and whispered a name to herself, trying to make it real.

Istanbul.

 

THE FERRY ROUNDED SERAGLIO POINT
and entered the Golden Horn, an inlet of the Bosphorous Sea that divided Istanbul and formed a natural harbor at the city's heart. Harry folded the
International Herald Tribune
and stowed it in his pocket. An article about North Cyprus had caught his eye, one of those odd little human-interest items that might pay off down the line.

Harry gripped the railing as the boat thrummed into reverse and backwash rocked the boat. They were surrounded by minarets and bridges and a constant rush of people and vehicles. Harry had been to Istanbul times beyond count. Everybody traveling beyond the borders of safety needed a haven, a place to recoup and refit. Istanbul was perfect. The city offered everything, if you knew where to look and had
cash at the ready. Danger was a natural part of this place, a heady spirit overlaid on the sunlit day.

The city had changed a lot since his last visit, and not changed at all. A ban on donkey carts meant traffic moved faster along narrow streets originally designed for Roman soldiers. Harry spotted a lot more women decked out in black body veils. Turkey's current government was drawn from the religious right, the first since Ataturk had wrested Turkey from the disintegrating Ottoman rule and founded the Middle East's strongest democracy. The Islamists drew much of their support from the nation's poor. Harry had heard they offered Istanbul widows a small stipend to don these head-to-toe black tents. The result was a subtle threat to the city's more cultured women and their singular independence.

He skirted the edge of the quayside market, the stalls stinking of smoked fish and mussels in buckets of seawater. Harry liked how Storm didn't need to be told to stick close. They passed the first of the bridges crossing the Golden Horn, where fishing poles bobbed like a forest of willows in the sultry breeze. He headed away from the water, taking the pedestrian bridge across ten lanes of Oriental mayhem. Harry stopped in front of the train station, built as a mock pasha's palace in Constantinople's heyday.

Harry said, “The bazaar's only a mile away, but it's all uphill. On the other hand, the taxis are hot and they don't have AC.”

She took a double lock on his left hand. “Let's walk.”

“I need to be free to move fast. You know. In case.”

She dropped his hand. “Sorry.”

“But when this is over, you want to resume that position, you absolutely have my permission.”

Storm realized he was joking and produced a tiny smile. “I won't let you down, Harry.”

“Girl, if there is one thing I'm sure of, it's that. Okay, let's move out.”

The street they took was steep enough for the sidewalk to be fashioned as broad steps. Tiny shops selling everything from hardware to wedding dresses spread their wares onto the crumbling stone. Pedestrians either picked their way between the hawkers or joined the traffic. A dim haze clung to the city's numerous hills. The air was rich with the
odors of roasting lamb and diesel and charcoal and mountains of spices and baking bread. To their left rose the walls of Suleiman the Magnificent's palace. A muezzin called the midmorning prayer, his sonorous moan taken up by a hundred other amplified voices. The city took little notice, just one more item amid the daily din.

He took Storm through the Covered Bazaar, mostly so he could watch her reaction. The gold quarter sparkled in the cool air, every window an Aladdin's cave. The floors were ancient mosaic, the high ceiling a series of ribbed domes. The branching avenues were tunnels filled with colors and hawkers who chanted their constant welcome. The crowd was thick but fluid. They made good time.

They emerged by the eastern gate, traversed the tree-lined path, and entered the pedestrian district. The stores were large and their displays elegant. The shoppers were drawn from the Turkish elite. They stopped before a window holding a silk carpet twenty-five feet wide, the color of caramel smoke. Spotlights shimmered upon solid gold threads. A sign at the base said the carpet had been a gift from Suleiman the Magnificent to the Egyptian emir.

The air-conditioned interior was a series of interconnecting rooms, partitioned by single granite steps and veils of interlocking spotlights. Storm took her time inspecting the wares on display, until a stylish woman approached and asked if she could be of service.

“I'm here to see Mehmet Ozman.”

The woman blinked. “But Mr. Mehmet is not here.”

“Could you tell me where we could find him? Mr. Ozman was probably expecting my grandfather, but he…” She stopped because the woman had vanished. She turned to Harry in confusion. Harry shrugged.

The saleswoman returned, this time led by a slender young man with spiked hair, a black stovepipe suit, and an attitude that angled his chin toward the ceiling. “Yes, you are here wanting something?”

“My name is Storm Syrrell. My grandfather—”

“Is dead.” He wore a dress shirt minus cuff links so that the cuffs flopped when he waved his arm. “Yes. Of course we know all this.”

“I'm sorry, you are—”

“Rolfy Ozman. This is my store now.”

“Your father has—”

“Uncle. My uncle. He is a sick old man. You have business, perhaps?”

“Your uncle and my grandfather did business together for many years.”

“This is important to me?” The delicate chin lifted higher still. “So now you come here why, maybe you are looking for a loan?”

“No, of course not. I'd just like to ask—”

“You want I should call the police?”

Harry said, “No cops.”

“Listen to your smart friend. Go back to America and take your questions with you.”

“My grandfather and your uncle were friends.”

“I don't care. It is over. Phht. Yesterday's news. Like your company, yes? Go see the ruins of Istanbul. You will find so many ruins. You will feel at home. Now good-bye.”

Storm held her ground. “Your uncle may know something vital about how Sean—”

“Syrrell's is finished, yes? Doors closed, so sorry. You have no business, nothing to sell. I have nothing here for people with no money. This is a real gallery. We have real clients.” He wheeled about, tossing his cuff over his shoulder. “No information for beggars here. Bye-bye.”

 

STORM APPEARED TO STROLL AS
they left the elegant walking district and entered the lower-priced sprawl stretching from the hilltop to the Bosphorus. Salesmen in front of carpet stores and jewelry shops beckoned with the same chorus: Pretty lady, come see, we have beautiful things, pretty lady, for you special price. Storm gave no sign she heard any of it. Harry walked a half pace behind her, waiting for the explosion.

When she reached a T-junction, she stopped. A bus smoked past, inches from her nose. Storm didn't blink.

Harry gripped her arm. “What say we back up a pace and maybe find a little shade for that overheated brain of yours.”

She allowed herself to be pulled over in front of a pastry shop. “The nephew didn't need to speak with us like that.”

“No, Storm. He didn't.”

“We've been doing business with his company for years.”

Harry tasted the air, found no hint of rage. “Maybe he's just trying to put the past behind him.”

“So he shows us the door. Why be angry?”

“So maybe he's afraid.”

“Of what? He said it himself. Syrrell's is finished.”

“I thought you'd be furious.”

“We don't have time for that.” She snapped into focus. “Call Emma. Tell her what happened. See if her contacts at Interpol can locate the uncle.”