Lang explained.

The inspector ran a finger across his mustache, a gesture Lang guessed was more reflexive than intentional. When Lang had finished, the dark brown eyes narrowed. "No attempt was made to rob you or the lady?"

Lang shook his head. "No."

"And you had never seen this man, the driver, before?" "No."

Again, the finger ran along the mustache. "What possible reason, then, would the man have to risk his own life by jumping from the carriage and leaving you to fall to your deaths in the sea?"

Lang shrugged, eyebrows raised at a question without an answer. "I have no idea, Inspector."

The Turk studied Lang's face carefully, his disbelief clear though unspoken.

The car's radio exploded in a rash of static and words. The uniformed driver acknowledged the message.

"They have recovered the horses," the inspector announced to no one in particular, "but there is no information about the man who took them."

Lang pointed to the hill where the monastery was supposedly hidden by trees. "Inspector, I, both of us, would like to continue on our way if you have nothing further." Lang held out a hand. "And I'd like our passports back."

Aziz seemed to actually notice Gurt for the first time. Perhaps it was an excuse to ignore Lang's request. "How long will you be in Turkey?"

Lang shrugged. "We want to see someone at the monastery. After that… well, there would be no reason to stay."

The policeman gave that chilly smile again and patted the pocket into which the passports had disappeared. "There are many reasons, Mr. Reilly. Have you ever taken a cruise up the Bosphorus? Seen the Blue Mosque or Topkapi Palace? Shopped at one of our bazaars?"

Lang held out his hand again. "Inspector, our passports. We cannot even get a hotel room without them."

Instead, Aziz handed over a business card. "Should you have problems without your papers, have your hotel call me."

Lang's patience was wearing thin. "You have no right to-"

The Turk snorted. "You are not in America, Mr. Reilly. Here, your rights are what I say they are, certainly as far as your passport is concerned. When I have finished my investigation, it will be returned to you. For that reason, I suggest you keep me aware of where you might be found. In the meantime, take the time to enjoy these islands and Istanbul."

It looked like they would have little choice.

Gurt, Lang and the priest watched the police car until it vanished among the trees before the latter spoke. "It is but a short trip up to the monastery. Come, we all can sit and have something refreshing to drink."

Lang smiled tightly. Once again, he didn't see any other options.

VII.

Buyukada

Twenty Minutes Later

Inspector Aziz sat behind his desk, glaring at the two passports as though ordering them to give up their secret.

The American, Reilly, and the Fuchs woman simply did not pass what he referred to as the smell test. The more a person's story varied from the inspector's personal experience, the more it smelled like meat left too long in the hot sun. Reilly and the woman would have him believe they had come to Istanbul and the Princes' Islands simply to visit the monastery of St. George.

Implausible but possible.

Of all of Istanbul's sights, a twentieth-century cloister ranked near the bottom. Still, there was no accounting for the quirks of Christians in general and Americans in particular.

It was the next part that defied belief.

For someone to risk not only apprehension for theft of the horses and rig but also chance breaking their neck to jump from the carriage to kill two tourists made no sense at all. In the first place, the felon had a knife-the owner of the phaeton had seen it. Why not use it?

For that matter, a gun, perhaps a rifle, would have done the job. The fact a firearm was not employed indicated the would-be killer probably had no access to one, no way to evade Turkey's stringent gun laws.

In short, an amateur rather than a professional criminal.

But jumping from the carriage?

The only answer Aziz could come up with was that the unsuccessful assassin had somehow known his prey would be difficult to kill in the close quarters a knife required. That would suggest two things: first, Reilly was not your ordinary tourist and, second, whoever had tried to kill him knew it. If that supposition were true, then who was he?

The policeman spun his swivel chair to face the monitor and keyboard behind his desk. A few taps brought up the Interpol Web site. He entered the password both for Turkey and himself. He now was into the international police organization's list of criminals and suspects.

He entered Lang Reilly's name and was rewarded with immediate results. Mr. Reilly, an American lawyer, had been suspected in the deaths of two street hoodlums in London several years ago, although there was insufficient evidence to bring him to trial. A few months past, he had killed one of the men who had kidnapped a wealthy British philanthropist. Aziz moved closer to the screen, squinting. Yes, that was what Scotland Yard's report said, killed an armed gunman… with a spear.

Hardly your average tourist.

The Fuchs woman did not appear at all.

But Reilly would bear watching. If he were up to some illegal purpose, Inspector Aziz would make sure he was the person to apprehend the American. Reilly just might be Aziz's own passport, one back to the mainland.

VIII.

Monastery of St. George

At the Same Time

The buildings had been erected less than a hundred years ago but the place still had the air of its medieval cousins. From the outside, its most noticeable feature was the Orthodox, or Greek, cross atop its domed roof. Inside was the familiar four-sided open cloister surrounded by a roofed colonnade along which black-clad monks blended with the afternoon's shadows and passed just as silently. From somewhere inside, melodic chants flowed on air scented by the courtyard's multiple rosebushes. It could have been built in the early twenty-first century or the first part of the twelfth.

Lang found comfort in such anachronisms. They gave a sense of timelessness that said no matter how great the world's problems, civilization would endure and continue. By contrast, the individual's woes diminished.

Gurt set the her glass on the stone bench they shared while waiting for the prior. "Stra, he called it?"

She referred to the priest who had escorted them here and insisted they take some sort of refreshment.

Lang ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. "Somewhere between wine and grape juice, I'd say." He drained the last of it. "A drink for the abstemious."

Gurt looked at him with that expression that said she had no clue what he had said.

He changed the subject to one they both had intentionally avoided till now. "How do you guess they knew we were in Turkey? For that matter, they even knew we were coming here."

This time she was on familiar turf. "Francis, Father Fancy, used his church contacts to arrange for us to meet the patriarch of Istanbul, did he not?" "It was the only way I knew to get us in to see about getting the book translated."

"Perhaps his conversation was overheard."

"Not likely. I insisted he use e-mail. In Latin."

Gurt stood and stretched, her hands above her head. "Perhaps Latin is not as dead as you think."

"Meaning?"

She shrugged. "Meaning someone understood it, someone with a way to read the e-mails."

"That doesn't help a lot. In this day and time, hacking into someone else's computer is as common as housebreaking. Reading Latin, though…"

The conversation halted as a portly man in a black robe strode purposefully toward them. Had he not had a long beard, he could have been a priest or monk from the Roman Church.