The older man put a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder. "You are right as usual, Antonio. Please continue."

"Since Reilly and the woman were not on the island long enough for a full translation, they must be planning to return. This time I have gone outside the order to procure the service we need. The man is a professional."

"One outside the order is not bound to silence about our affairs."

"True, Grand Master. This man, the one waiting near the monastery for Reilly s return, believes he is being paid by a certain organization from Sicily."

The older man gave a grim smile. "You have done well. Let us hope he succeeds."

XIV.

United States Consulate

Mesrutiyet Cad 104-108 Tepebasi

Istanbul

Thirty Minutes Later

Gurt had shown her creds to the marine guards, enabling she and Lang to bypass the building's metal detectors after all. Lang was grateful. He was well aware of the spools of red tape that would have been required to explain the weapons they had retrieved from the hotel as they departed. She gave a name to a receptionist and they were ushered to an elevator.

Jim Hartwell operated under the title of assistant trade attaché, the somewhat shopworn label given the agency's local chief of station. His status meant he had been around a long time, certainly during those years when Lang had been married to Dawn and out of touch with the covert world shared by Gurt and Hartwell What else they might have shared was none of Lang's business. It was clear he had a thing for her. Whether he had lusted from afar or a lot closer than Lang would like to think was going to remain a mystery.

Lang waited patiently while the agency man and Gurt swapped news about mutual acquaintances and reminisced about past assignments. The tailored Italian summer-weight wool suit, the currently popular solid-color power tie and handmade wingtips that had to have come from Milan cost more than a month's pay for a chief of station in anyplace other than a major embassy. His hair was expensively cut and streaked with silver in just the right places. His teeth, which he displayed often, could have served as a commendation for any orthodontist. Lang doubted he had gotten his tan from being outdoors. His appearance, his diction, told Lang Hartwell was one more rich kid who had sat down in the lap of luxury at birth and whose family had accurately assessed his abilities and potential for damage to the family business. Like so many wealthy American dynasties, they had either successfully persuaded or threatened him into "public service," an euphemism for whatever available government job that did not entail sweat or dirty fingernails. If he managed to be something other than a total disaster, politics would be the next step.

As the preliminary pleasantries drew to a conclusion, Lang decided he didn't like Jim Hartwell very much.

Then Gurt outlined the purpose of the visit.

Hartwell tapped his teeth with the stem of a briar that looked well used despite the no smoking signs that adorned every American government outpost from Abu Dhabi to Zwolle.

If there was an American outpost in Zwolle.

"Let me get this straight," the agency man said, staring out of the window of his second-floor office. "You want me to arrange for you both to get out of Turkey by diplomatic means, never mind that Turkey is an important ally of the United States"

"It is a particular police inspector that is no ally," Gurt said.

"Getting people out of places is something your employer routinely does," Lang added, "even when they aren't particularly eager to leave"

Hartwell shot him a glance. "Not as routinely as you think. We got burned a couple of years ago."

He referred to an incident when a suspected Muslim extremist had literally been snatched off the streets of Milan for interrogation in Egypt, where the definition of torture was somewhat looser than in Europe. An outraged Italian government had indicted in absentia the agency personnel suspected. Only the US's refusal to extradite had prevented a very embarrassing trial.

"You will not do it?" Gurt asked.

"I didn't say that. I'd have to get authorization."

No matter what branch of government, buck passing was the standard credo.

"In Belgrade I did not wait for authorization," Gurt said.

Lang suppressed the urge to ask what had happened in the Yugoslavian capital. He was fairly certain he wouldn't like the answer anyway.

Hartwell studied his manicure. "You're asking me to ride my ass."

"As did I."

Apparently satisfied with cuticle depth and nail length, Hartwell turned his attention to a cluster of diplomas on the wall, all from smaller Ivy League schools.

Lang felt a growing annoyance. He started to say something and clamped his jaw shut. Was he giving way to an irrational emotion because he had had to watch Gurt utilize her sexuality on the Turkish cop and now she was doing the same thing, albeit in a different way, with this empty suit who might be a former lover? Or was it because there had been a time when a chief of station was answerable to nobody below the director, a congressional investigating committee or, occasionally, God? Those days had disappeared with the Berlin Wall. Feather merchants had replaced decision makers. Small wonder tiny nations like Bosnia or North Korea took delight in sticking a thumb in the eye of the American eagle. Small nations or those of the Middle East that actually were no more than tribes with flags.

Hartwell slapped an open palm down on the desktop with a whack that made Lang forget his irritation.

"I've got a way, I think."

There was a brief silence as though he were awaiting applause for what might be his first idea in a long time.

"There's a marine helicopter that leaves almost every day for the embassy in Ankara, diplomatic mission carrying sensitive papers and the like. I might be able to get you space on it."

"Last time I looked, Ankara was still in Turkey," Lang drawled.

Hartwell glared at him, then smiled, bearing those magnificent choppers again. "There's international service from Ankara."

"To where, Kabul or Islamabad? We need to get to someplace where there's service to the US."

Hartwell, still smiling, shrugged. "Best I can do."

Gurt, anticipating Lang's reaction, held out a restraining hand. "Cannot the Gulfstream land in Ankara?"

"Gulfstream?" Hartwell asked, chagrined to suddenly realize he might be dealing with someone important.

The Gulfstream, of course.

Lang had allowed himself the luxury of being too busy disliking the man to think clearly. He stood and took the BlackBerry from his pocket. "Is there anyplace I can have a private conversation?"

Coming around his desk, Hartwell crossed the room, opening a door that had blended so well with the paneling Lang had not noticed it.

"Our conference room. Soundproof, swept daily," he said proudly.

In a few minutes, Lang returned. "I forgot. The plane is in Damascus. We're building a couple of children's hospitals there. Just tell me what time."

Hartwell picked up a phone on his desk, muttered into it and said, "In about two hours."

Lang did some geographical calculations. "That should work."

"One more thing," Gurt announced sweetly. "A very special favor for an old friend."

Hartwell suddenly looked as if his lunch had disagreed with him. "I thought…"

"Just a truly little thing." Gurt was holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "We need to stop at the monastery on the Princes' Islands. They have something very important for us to pick up."

The agency man looked from Gurt to Lang and back again, just now realizing they had agreed to keep this part of the agenda for last. "Impossible! This isn't the States where helicopters fly pretty much where they want. We have to clear every flight days ahead of time. Besides, like most European countries, helicopters are restricted over certain areas. I can't…"