"Inspector Aziz," he announced.

He listened for a few minutes before thanking the caller and hanging up. "I think we have your horses and carriage," he said grimly.

VI.

Buyukada

Either he would find a way to grab the brake handle or Manfred would be an orphan in the next few seconds. Lang considered simply jumping until a good look at the stony ground told him the price of such a move at this speed would be much the same as following the carriage over the edge. The driver had known where the last spots soft with grass and loose sand were when he jumped.

Better to try something else.

If he could.

Lang unbuckled his belt, holding both ends in one hand. The first and second tries missed. On the third, he got the loop around his target. He threw his weight back as hard as he could, praying the belt would hold. Alligator was decorative but not as strong as the more plebeian cowhide. Muscles still healing sent a jolt of pain up his arms and across his back, anguish that brought tears to his eyes.

Still, he held on and pulled as Gurt, both arms around his waist, pulled him.

He heard the scrape of the wooden shoe against the metal rim of the wheel and felt the vibrations but the speed seemed undiminished. Then the curve was not rushing at them quite so fast.

One wheel bumped slowly over the edge and they were stopped, literally hanging over the edge of a very long drop. Three hundred or so feet straight down, the Sea of Marmara gnashed its rocky teeth in a swirl of creamy foam.

Gurt let go of Lang and started to step down to the ground.

Gravel crunched and the phaeton shuddered, edging an inch downhill.

Gurt froze in midstep. "I think the balance is not so good."

"Too good," Lang said, arms frozen to the belt still looped around the brake. "We move an ounce of it and well be in the water."

"And so? We stay here until someone come by and can help?"

Another movement by the carriage, slight though it was, answered that question.

"I don't think we have that long," Lang said needlessly.

As though to confirm the observation, a sudden shift in the breeze made the light rig lean another inch or so. Damn pity they weren't in a sturdy farm wagon. At least the top was down rather than adding to the potential sail area. Both Lang and Gurt remained still as statues as the rig swayed slightly in the breeze. At some point, gravity was going to claim it.

And them with it.

Almost afraid to move his lips, Lang said slowly, "I'm going to count to three. On three, we jump."

"And my bag? My clothes and makeup?"

Gurt might insist on being treated like a man, but she was still female.

"Were I you, I'd think more about whether you're going to be alive to use the replacements."

"But I do not know I can replace them here."

Lang repressed a sigh, trying not to reconcile Gurt's feminine worries about clothes and cosmetics with her ability to shoot a helicopter pilot in his aircraft from the ground as she had done during the Julian affair. To a man, women would be the last great unsolved mystery on earth.

Instead, he began to count, eliminating further discussion. "One, two…"

As though choreographed, two bodies leapt from the phaeton, hitting the hard surface of the road with a single thump. Lang's vision turned red, punctuated with blotches of color as his still-healing body responded with a jolt of pain that would have taken his breath away had not the impact already done so. There was a buzzing in his ears as he struggled both to suck air into his lungs and not to black out.

He fought his way to his knees, reaching behind him to make sure the Browning was still in its holster at the small of his back. Gurt was already on her feet, hand extended to him. "You are OK, yes?"

Lang took it and stood gingerly, determined not to show his discomfort. "I don't think anything's broken that wasn't already."

Together they stepped to the edge. Other than a single wheel spinning in the surf as if still on its axle, the phaeton had vanished.

A sound behind them caused both to spin around. Lang's hand was on the butt of his weapon.

They were looking at a small cart pulled by a donkey. Sitting on the board provided for the driver sat a man with a full beard. He was dressed in a black robe and a tall hat was on his head. He was regarding them curiously as if they might have dropped from the moon. For an instant, Lang thought he was looking at the reincarnation of Father Strentenoplis.

A monk from the monastery?

"Do you speak English?"

The man nodded gravely. "A little."

"You are from the monastery of St. George?"

He nodded again. "That is where I serve my church and my God, yes."

"That was where we were going when…" Lang trailed off, unsure how or if to explain.

The priest pointed to the top of the next hill. "It is there. You cannot see it because of the trees." He stepped down from his perch. "One of you may ride…"

Taking a closer look at the wagon, Lang saw it was full of fish and vegetables, no doubt from a market in the town below. "No, no, we wouldn't…"

Gurt led Lang to the cart. "My friend here is-was- hurt."

The man gave Lang the sort of look he might have used in appraising a new donkey. "When your carriage fell over the edge?"

Gurt and Lang started at each other as he continued. "I saw it as it was, was… balancing? Yes, balancing before it fell into the sea. I was not near to help and I feared if I made myself known, you might turn and…" He pulled a cell phone from the folds of his robe. "But I did call for help."

From whom, a sky crane?

As if on cue, Lang heard the pulsating wail of a police siren. A small white car with blue stripes emerged from a grove of cedars sculpted by the wind. A bar on top flashed red and blue.

Lang forgot his aches and pains for the moment. Arrival of the local police rarely heralded change for the better. It was certain the weapons he and Gurt carried would create problems if discovered. The last thing they needed was to be confined in the local jail where potential assassins could easily locate him. Visions of the prison of the 70s movie, Midnight Express, came to mind with all of its dark horror of filthy cells and brutal guards. At least that particular building had been converted to one of Istanbul's more luxurious hotels.

The car came to a stop amid swirling dust. The driver was in uniform, the passengers in mufti. A short bald-headed man with a mustache got out, holding his police creds in his hand. He was dressed in what Lang guessed might have been the only suit and tie on the island. From the backseat emerged a younger man wearing what looked like American jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt open at the collar.

The policeman pointed and asked a question Lang could not understand. The younger man replied in the same language, shaking his head.

The policeman gave a smile that wrinkled his round face but didn't reach his eyes. "I am Inspector Aziz," he said in almost accentless English. He did not extend a hand. "This man had his horses and carriage taken at the point of a knife. He tells me you are not the guilty person."

A good start.

"Your passports, please." The policeman's hand was outstretched.

Lang, always suspicions of both police and such requests, toyed with the idea of claiming both documents had been lost along with their baggage. He decided the ensuing problems with having no official ID outweighed his reservations. He and Gurt handed them over. The inspector flipped through both of them, squinting at the date of the recently purchased visas.

"You have had quite a bit of, of… excitement since your arrival in Turkey." To Lang's discomfort, he slid the passports into a jacket pocket. "Perhaps," he continued, "you would be so good as to tell me who you are and what has happened here."