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  ‘The money is not an issue. If that’s what he’s asking for, then you have to convince him that he will get it.’

  Makana could hear Winslow turning away to talk to someone else. It wasn’t the first time, but now it made him think, reminding him that beyond the solitary figure of the Englishman there lay an entire world of which Makana knew nothing.

  ‘You must carry on as before,’ Winslow said when he came back on the line. ‘Follow the routine, just as he ordered. Go to the rendezvous, make contact and bring him in.’

  ‘What do I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him what he wants to hear. If he’s after money, a new identity, relocation, whatever. Just get him ready for when I give the word. I’ll have something for you within twenty-four hours. In the meantime, keep your head down. Nadir was a very cautious man, he wouldn’t have left anything lying around, so the police won’t find any connection that leads back to us.’

  The woman was rocking back and forth, fiddling with her carrier bags, talking to herself.

  ‘It could have been an old girlfriend, or some kind of business rivalry.’ Winslow was clutching at straws. Makana wondered if he was still in Cairo. ‘Do whatever you have to to bring Nizari in. Stall him, promise him the earth, just until we have our hands on him.’

  ‘And what do I do with him once I’ve got him?’

  ‘You’ll need to be prepared to sit tight for a couple of days.’

  ‘I already have a place in mind,’ said Makana.

  ‘Good. Just sit on him till we can get you out.’ Winslow’s breezy confidence had returned. ‘Twenty-four hours, maybe less. I’ll get it sorted.’

  Makana hung up. When he stepped out of the booth he held the door for the woman. She ignored him, scowling and turning her back.

  Koçak was in the hotel lobby reading a newspaper and drinking coffee, chatting with the waitress from the café. The sight of Makana brought him to his feet.

  ‘Amin Bey! Ready to see greatest palace in world?’

  Makana found himself joining the crowds trailing through the brass-plated imperial gates of the Topkapi Palace. Families chattered excitedly as they made their way through the grounds where gazelles once roamed freely. They followed pathways past fountains and lawns, lush flower beds and gardens, tall cypresses and pines, Judas trees and lilacs. They consulted guidebooks and waved cameras as if they had just discovered a treasure long lost to humanity.

  Makana passed through them, turning to follow a sign that led off to the right and to the museum now housed in the former barracks. Stone lions guarded the entrance. Inside he found himself walking past the sarcophagi of Byzantine emperors and Persian satraps, statues of ancient gods.

  In another room glass cases displayed daggers, heavy sabres and rifles long enough to take out the enemy’s eye without firing a shot.

  ‘Nasty-looking piece of equipment, eh?’

  The man standing alongside Makana wore a crumpled pink cotton shirt, navy-blue slacks and a cheap straw trilby, the perfect tourist.

  ‘I’m not an expert,’ said Makana. They were almost alone. A couple of middle-aged Americans strolled by like contented pandas, cameras nestling on bulging midriffs.

  ‘Nobody ever is.’ Marty Shaw glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you called me.’

  ‘The other day you hinted that you knew why I was here,’ said Makana. ‘I need to know if I can count on your help.’

  ‘Well, that depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  Shaw turned to face Makana. ‘On how far you are willing to cooperate.’

  ‘You understand my position?’

  ‘You’re here on Winslow’s orders. That much we know. As for the rest, we’re in the dark.’

  ‘Winslow seems to think there is a leak at the consulate.’

  ‘Winslow is paranoid. He’s gone rogue.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He’s flying solo.’ Shaw sighed. ‘It means that we’re no longer sure we can control him.’

  ‘But he’s still on your side?’ Makana stared at the Englishman. There was something of the outlaw about him, the scruffy clothes and the cheap hat. In place of Winslow’s sophistication, Shaw offered the rough charm of the working class.

  ‘In theory, yes. Look, we don’t want this to get out of hand. Winslow has a reputation. He’s been in the service for a long time.’

  ‘You can’t just turn against him,’ said Makana.

  ‘This is strictly confidential. I need to know what you know.’ Shaw fell silent as a couple went by. ‘Does Winslow know you’re here?’

  ‘No.’ Makana shook his head. ‘I told you, he thinks there’s a leak.’

  Marty Shaw let out a gentle laugh. ‘That sounds about right.’ He looked at Makana. ‘If he was anyone else he would have been thrown out on his backside. He’s trying to prove himself. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s all about getting old. I don’t know.’

  Makana thought back to the conversation he’d had with Winslow, and the voices in the background. He wondered who Winslow’s new friends might be.

  Marty Shaw led the way to the next cabinet. A row of golden warriors on horses rushing down from the steppes of Central Asia. Makana waited a moment and then followed. Shaw spoke to the glass.

  ‘Winslow’s trying to prove something by bringing in Abu Hilal single-handedly – well, with your help. He thinks he has a way of getting to him.’

  ‘Tell me about the Israelis.’

  Shaw feigned surprise. ‘What makes you think they’re involved?’

  ‘How do you expect me to trust you if you treat me like an idiot?’ Makana asked. ‘Are you working with them? Does the Mossad have a team here in Istanbul?’

  ‘Even if I knew, what makes you think I would tell you?’ Shaw looked bemused. ‘Tell me who you are again.’

  ‘I’m wasting my time.’ Makana shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, this was a mistake.’ He made to turn away and Shaw grabbed his arm.

  ‘Wait. You can’t just walk away.’

  ‘I’m not some native informant. Either you talk to me, or I cannot help you.’

  ‘All right.’ Shaw held his hands up in defence. ‘Okay, there has been chatter. It’s possible the Mossad have a team here.’

  ‘Are you in contact with them?’

  ‘No.’ Shaw shook his head. ‘Okay, your turn.’

  ‘A man named Nadir Sulayman was murdered last night. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Small-time entrepreneur. He handles contraband and some people smuggling.’

  ‘He was supposed to get us out of here,’ said Makana.

  ‘Nice plan. Well done, Marcus.’ Shaw frowned. ‘Who’s us?’

  ‘Ayman Nizari, an Iraqi specialist.’

  ‘What kind of specialist?’

  ‘The kind who worked for Saddam Hussein in his chemical-warfare programme.’ Both men fell silent as a small and noisy crocodile of people filed in through the entrance, led by a woman wagging a Korean flag over her head. Makana resumed his story.

  ‘Nizari wants to come in. Winslow has promised him sanctuary and medical care for his wife.’

  ‘And Winslow thinks this guy can lead him to Abu Hilal?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Makana. ‘The question is, if I bring Nizari to you, can you get both of us out of the country safely?’

  ‘You can bring Nizari in?’ Shaw asked.

  ‘I’m trying.’ Makana glanced at his watch.

  ‘You bring him to me and I’ll find out what can be done.’ Shaw watched the room behind him in the reflection in the glass. ‘I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do the best I can.’

  Pushing his hands into his pockets, Shaw sauntered away. Makana stared into the cabinet in front of him. A malachite tortoise presented by the Sultan to his wife. The details weren’t enlightening, though he wondered at the significance of a tortoise.

  As he made his way back towards the waiting taxi, the phone Nadir Sulayman had given him buzzed with
an incoming call. It was Kara Deniz.

  ‘Have you changed your mind about helping me?’ Makana asked.

  ‘Perhaps.’ There was a pause. ‘I care about who killed him.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Not over the phone,’ she said. ‘It’s not safe. We should meet.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Makana.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the hands of a moderately skilled artist, the interior of the Iskander Grillroom might have modelled for a still life of human despair. In one corner, a woman in a red coat sat weeping into her handkerchief. A grizzled drunk swirled his tongue around a set of toothless gums, nursing a beer, waiting impatiently for nightfall, or the next bottle, or perhaps a visit from his guardian angel. In the middle of the room, two men drew Makana’s attention, one twice the size of the other. The bigger one was shaven-headed and had a lumpy face that showed evidence of a bad case of acne. The other was small and scruffy, with thin, unkempt hair that was combed over his rounded head. Both were dressed in cheap sports clothes and both wore neatly trimmed beards that framed their chins but left their faces clear.

  All of this Makana observed from his vantage point, sitting at the steel counter of a tiny hole-in-the-wall café across the narrow sidestreet. Through the open doorway he watched the boy from the previous day, making his way from table to table outside the restaurant with his little cardboard tray of postcards, lighters and assorted knickknacks. Two men in leather jackets wanted to buy chewing gum and cigarettes, haggling over the price. The boy was impatient, dismissing their offers with a toss of his head. He didn’t seem to realise they were just having a little fun teasing him. The men looked as if they might be some branch of Turkish security, or plainclothes police, clumsy enough to be surveillance officers trying too hard to blend in. Makana tried to memorise their faces.

  The boy vanished inside and Makana watched him moving round between the tables, making two circuits before the waiter sent him packing, lodging himself in the doorway to block his entry. The boy cupped his hands to the window to take another look at the interior. This was enough for the waiter to chase him off, and the boy took himself out of range to stand on the corner picking at his sheet of cardboard before turning and trudging back down the hilly streets past the Galata Tower, unaware that Makana was close behind.

  Tailing a boy no more than eleven years old brought its own disadvantages. His lack of height meant that he could disappear in a crowd in an instant, which was what happened as they skirted past the tower. The boy vanished, a pebble swallowed by a wave of shuffling humanity. In the distance the soft chant of a muezzin zigzagged up towards the heavens. Makana slipped through the crowds, seeking a better view. The boy resurfaced on the corner of an adjacent sidestreet. A few metres further down he could be glimpsed climbing uneven steps into a narrow entrance. Makana slowed his pace. The boy appeared to be speaking to someone just out of sight. As Makana edged along, staying as far back as possible, the shambling figure of Ayman Nizari emerged from the shadows. Nizari was wearing an oversized jacket hung lopsidedly over a tracksuit. He was unshaven and looked even more unkempt than when Makana had seen him at the Rüstem Pasha mosque.

  The boy was talking, and Nizari listened for a time before waving him away with a handful of crumpled notes, which the boy licked his thumb and carefully counted. The boy was clearly unhappy with the terms of their agreement, but Nizari shook him off with a gesture of impatience. He remained in the doorway long enough to watch the boy wandering slowly away, then turned to go back inside.

  Makana moved in to take a closer look. It was a café, a small, dark place with a scruffy look about it. As he watched, Nizari emerged again, but this time he was on the move. He vanished through an archway and out into a yard. There were tables and chairs spread out and young couples sitting in the sun smoking and drinking coffee. Tourists in sunglasses sipped wine and ate lunch. The clink of cutlery and glasses accompanied Makana as he passed through. Descending some steps, past a zither player who provided a jumpy soundtrack, brought him to a quiet street that curved down towards the silver glint of the sea below.

  Ayman Nizari walked with the nervous, clumsy gait of a man too preoccupied to care much about his surroundings. He paused to buy cigarettes from a vendor on a corner, impatiently tearing off the cellophane wrapper and dropping it in his wake as he lit one.

  Makana’s explorations in his first days here were now paying off. It was easy to become disorientated in the threaded weave of streets, but he found he had developed a certain understanding of the city’s layout. A steep alleyway spilled them out onto the broad quayside. Ahead of them, he realised, lay the waterfront and the ferry station. The air was rich with a raw mix of fish and diesel oil. The smell of frying came from a nearby snack bar, while the high-pitched cawing of seagulls clashed with the low moan of ferryboat horns.

  Nizari was slowing down, as if he were nearing his goal. He began to look around him, over his shoulder. Perhaps it was the open space that made him more cautious. People milled about, weaving through the gridlocked vehicles. Clumps of tourists huddled here and there, as if suddenly intimidated to find themselves out on the edge of the European continent. A brisk wind blew in off a choppy sea, and Makana hung back, not wanting to risk the man turning and seeing him. He would be easier to spot in this open space. He skirted the walls, moving past a row of run-down shops and restaurants, conscious also of the risk of others waiting and watching.

  Seeing Nizari disappearing into the shadows of the ferry terminus, Makana increased his speed, suddenly conscious that he might lose his quarry. He was almost at the terminus building when somebody stepped into his path.

  ‘Going somewhere, Mr Amin?’

  Inspector Serkan had the smug look of a child who has trapped a butterfly in his hands. Over the inspector’s shoulder Makana watched Ayman Nizari dissolve into the milling crowd and vanish from sight.

  ‘I feel I should have made myself clearer at our last meeting. I would prefer it for you to stay on this side of Istanbul.’ Serkan cast a wary glance to his left, as if implying that once you set foot in Asia, anything might happen.

  ‘I wasn’t planning to leave just yet.’

  ‘That’s good.’ The inspector shrugged his shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘People are sometimes not even aware what they are planning until it is too late.’

  ‘I thought I wasn’t a suspect, Inspector.’

  ‘Clearly that’s true, but as you know, or perhaps you don’t’ – the detective beamed at his own humour – ‘everyone is a suspect. It has to be so. It’s nothing personal, you understand, but I have been in this line of work for many years, and in that time I have learned that even the most trustworthy person is capable of deception.’

  ‘I had no reason to kill Nadir Sulayman.’ Makana resisted the temptation to look back in the direction of the ferry terminal.

  ‘Perhaps, but you must be able to see that I would be guilty of negligence if I did not regard you as a possible suspect, since you were on the scene.’

  ‘Doesn’t that put me in the category of valuable witness, rather than prime suspect?’

  Inspector Serkan smiled. ‘I prefer to consider everyone a potential suspect.’

  ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’ The inspector’s eyes probed him for further elaboration.

  ‘Better than you think,’ said Makana.

  Inspector Serkan chewed the answer over like a cautious man prepared to find a bone in a mouthful of fish.

  ‘In that case, let me ask you another question.’ The inspector’s eyes looked back towards the ferry station. ‘What exactly are you doing here?’

  ‘The guidebook said it was an essential part of the city’s character,’ Makana improvised, allowing his gaze to follow the inspector’s towards the terminal. A ferry was pulling out of the terminal, water foaming around the stern. He could make out the name Heybeliada on the destination board outside the ferry station.


  ‘Let me buy you a coffee.’ Without giving Makana the option of turning him down, the inspector led the way along the quay to a space where knee-high plastic tables and stools were ranged in a disorderly sprawl. Gulls hoping for scraps perched at a vigilant distance. The stall was nothing but a flimsy cart run by two energetic men who greeted the inspector with toothless smiles. People sat eating freshly fried fish off paper trays. Inspector Serkan chose a spot close to the water’s edge and slid a photograph across the table.

  ‘What is this?’

  Inspector Serkan gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘Her name is Kara Deniz, and please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t know her.’

  Makana looked up from the picture. ‘You’re having me followed?’ He was annoyed, mostly with himself, having been convinced that he had succeeded in losing any possible tail.

  ‘I would be negligent in my duties if I was not watching you.’ Serkan tapped the photograph. ‘In her spare time she writes for political journals, the more radical kind. She has a history of political agitation and support for terrorist organisations.’

  ‘You mean the Kurds?’

  ‘You are well informed.’ Inspector Serkan folded his arms. ‘So, I am curious. Why should a man who comes here to buy agricultural machinery be associating with a known political radical?’

  ‘Perhaps I simply like her company.’

  ‘I suppose in a certain light she might be considered an attractive woman, but …’ A busy waiter hurried by and the inspector ordered without losing his thread. ‘She is hardly the kind of woman I would associate with you, Amin Bey.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know me that well.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Serkan shrugged. ‘I am a simple detective. Every once in a while I catch someone who has done a bad thing, and that makes me feel better about myself, but the truth is that most of the time we just follow the routine.’ The inspector glanced back out at the water as a ferry sounded its throaty wail. ‘Then I come across a man like yourself and I wonder.’ Serkan nodded at the photograph of Kara Deniz. ‘Her parents were activists. Her mother died in prison and her father went into exile for the same reason. The little girl grew up hating the state. She has made a career out of it. What would a person like you want with someone like that?’