One of his fellows made the mistake of rushing to his comrade's defense. He was greeted with a nose-shattering right hook that would have done credit to a professional boxer.

The rest of the group grumbled for a moment as if about to do something as painful as their two cohorts. Apparently they simultaneously recalled previous engagements.

Whether their collective memory had been jogged by Gurt or the approach of a uniformed policeman, Lang would never know. He did know having the cops arrive was rarely a good thing. This one, though, was doing a poor job of masking a grin that wouldn't go away.

"I apologize," he said in heavily accented English. "I have had problems with those, those… hooligans before. They steal what they can in the bazaars and frighten the tourists such as yourselves." He nodded to Gurt. "I would think at least two of them will go elsewhere." He watched as the last of the group disappeared around a corner. "I am… what? Shame, yes, shame for my city."

Gurt, not even breathing hard, smiled. "We are nothing but well treated here."

"I have been impressed by how very courteous you Turks are," Lang chimed in.

Except for one very bad apple on the Princes' Islands who tried to kill us.

The policeman made no effort this time to conceal a grin. "You have… what do you say? Teached them a lesson."

As he left, he couldn't resist taking one last look at the tall blonde woman who had physically beaten two men. Islam, Lang guessed, didn't have many Gurts.

An hour later, Gurt and Lang left the bazaar. He was carrying a box containing a pair of garish carpet slippers Gurt had insisted he buy. She had enjoyed haggling with the shopkeeper far more than he was going to enjoy the shoes. Where in Atlanta do you display red, blue and green footwear? Answer: at home where no one you know will ever see them.

She had purchased a pair of purses that had probably never seen France despite the double-C brass clasp of one of Paris's more chic fashion houses. As she had noted, the price had been right, an opinion she might change if they fell apart in a week or so. One thing was certain: the Atlanta Chanel store would collapse in laughter if asked to honor any supposed warranty issued by its Grand Bazaar branch.

They exited the way they had come in. They were greeted by the wavering wails that were calls to yatsi, the fifth and last prayers of the day, from the adjacent mosque.

They were also greeted by a group of scruffy-looking young men just outside the gate.

Two or three of the young hoodlums from inside and two or three Lang and Gurt had not seen before. It was a safe guess they weren't there to apologize.

But how?

Easily enough. Of the multiple ways in and out, only four led toward the part of town where tourists would be likely to stay. Several faced toward the slope that lead to the Spice Bazaar and the Golden Horn beyond. With one man with a cell phone covering each of the probable gates, the gang could quickly assemble at a place across Lang and Gurt's path.

Lang cursed himself for not considering the fracas inside might be continued. The two young men had received injuries to their pride far more serious than Gurt had inflicted on their bodies. Being not only physically beaten but also humbled by a woman was an insult few Muslim men would ignore. Nor would their friends let them.

Lang's hand went to his back, where the steel of the Browning reassured him. Undesirable as shooting their way out might be, it was preferable to what these hoodlums had in mind. Explaining weapons to the police was not why he and Gurt were here.

There had to be a better way and it was right in front of him.

Taking Gurt's left hand, he snatched her toward the mosque.

Inside, rows of arched windows of intricately designed panes were black with the night in stark contrast to the lighter tiles set in intricate and abstract patterns. The dome with its supporting arches must have contained thousands of them. A wooden calligraphic frieze ran above the gallery of the square prayer hall. There was little time to admire the city's first Baroque mosque. Men were kneeling on the floor facing the mihrab, or niche indicating the direction of Mecca. A few latecomers screamed in outrage at the violation of their sanctuary by the presence of a woman in the men's prayer section and an indecently clad one at that.

Time to change plans. It was clear he and Gurt would find no refuge here. Lang shot a glance over his shoulder. Two of the gang were already coming through the door. Neither had stopped long enough to remove their shoes. A third entered, saw Lang and Gurt and shouted as he pointed.

The mosque went silent as the murmur of prayer stopped. First one, then a second man stood to glare at the new set of intruders. Suddenly realizing their mistake, the young men from the bazaar started edging their way back toward the entrance. It was already blocked by several infuriated worshipers.

Lang and Gurt made a dash for a doorway on the opposite side of the building. Behind them, they heard enraged shouts. Apparently sacrilege by believers or infidels was equally egregious.

A glance over his shoulder told Lang that a dozen or so shoeless and angry Muslims were in pursuit. Weaving in and out of alleys, he and Gurt tried without success to lose the men behind them. In a few blocks, Lang realized they were close to the hotel. Letting a mob know where they were staying was among the last things he intended to do. They had just rounded a corner and come into view of the Blue Mosque when he spied another small inn. Without hesitation, they entered, ignoring the openmouthed clerk behind a reception desk.

Gurt headed for the stairs and took a stride up only to find the passage blocked by a red-faced man pushing a cart loaded with baggage. Above him were several Asian men and women.

Swell.

A great time to encounter one of the Japanese tour groups that occupy budget hotels the world over.

There was no place to go but down.

At the bottom of a short flight of stairs was a door, which Lang jerked open and stopped, staring.

He was looking at water.

Not a puddle or an indoor pool but a span of black water that stretched as far as the light from the doorway let him see. He made out rows of Corinthian capped columns under multiple arches that faded into the gloom.

What had he read in the guidebook on the plane?

The sixth-century Byzantine emperor Justinian had built a cistern underneath what was then the royal palace, the present location of the Blue Mosque, as a source of water should the city come under siege. He recalled something about eighty thousand cubic meters. There had been a great deal more information, but it hardly seemed relevant as he heard angry shouts above. He only wished he could recall if the book had mentioned the depth.

The yells were growing closer and he could hear footsteps on the stairs. Both he and Gurt could swim if need be.

It was only waist deep.

He and Gurt waded blindly until they reached the nearest column. Lang measured by wrapping his arms around it. Not wide enough to hide them if the men behind them had a flashlight. They moved farther away and stood silently. The sound of an occasional ripple told Lang they were not entirely alone in this amazing pond. The realization sent cold fingers of apprehension down his backbone, a chill he tried to persuade himself was merely the coolness of the water.

What creatures inhabited the cistern, living in water and darkness? His imagination conjured up a number of very unpleasant possibilities: Some heretofore unknown species of piranha? Crocodiles? Somewhere he had read about freshwater sharks in a South American lake.

A small splash inches away made him flinch. Fish. The water was full of fish. He could feel small bodies nudging his clothing. The story of how they got here would be an interesting one.