LITMIR.BIZ

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Tallis thought contemptuously as he was hustled into a waiting police car. He simply possessed excellent reflexes and training. But he could hardly mention that to the police.

      The Grand Bazaar nearby had its own mosque, bank and police station, but Tallis was taken to Istanbul Police Headquarters. Tallis hoped it wasn’t the next target for a suicide bomber. Not that long ago, police stations had become a terrorist’s dream location.

      If there was air-conditioning, it wasn’t switched on. The overwhelming noise came from a flurry of flies buzzing around, either copulating or beating the shit out of each other. It was so hot inside, Tallis thought the concrete walls might crack and explode. At first he was forced to wade his way through several impenetrable layers of administration, lots of hanging around, lots of giving the same information, lots of meeting the tired gaze of disinterested clerks who smoked like troopers. He noticed that his fellow witnesses were detained elsewhere. Lucky them, he thought.

      In bureaucratic limbo, he had ample time to consider his position. As traumatic as the sudden turn of events was, it didn’t need to jeopardise his cover. To come clean would only confuse and complicate the issue. Besides, he really didn’t want Asim alerted to the mess he was in. Wouldn’t look very suave on a first outing with his new handler, especially as it might be construed as treading on the Secret Intelligence Service.

      As for the café owner’s remark, he reckoned the man had it all wrong. Tallis had witnessed the hit for himself, seen it coming. At no time had he been afraid for his own personal safety. It had been more a diffuse fear of being caught in someone else’s crossfire. Which brought him back to Morello. Who would want him killed? Sure, as a crime correspondent Garry mixed in muddy circles, but he was British, for God’s sake, and British journalists didn’t usually get themselves slotted—unlike their Russian and Turkish counterparts. So, whomever he’d pissed off, or whatever it was he’d stumbled across that meant his life was worth extinguishing, it had to be big.

      Ertas turned up an hour and a half after Tallis’s arrival. ‘So sorry to keep you. Much to do,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

      ‘Have you contacted Mr Morello’s wife?’ Tallis said, his stomach lurching. It was a second marriage for Gayle. She’d lost her first husband in a car accident. What a lousy hand of cards she’d been dealt, Tallis thought grimly.

      ‘Next of kin have been informed,’ Ertas said in businesslike fashion. ‘Everything to your satisfaction?’ he added, eyeing the clean shirt Tallis was wearing. It wasn’t. The shirt was a half collar size too small.

      ‘Fine.’

      Ertas suggested coffee, an invitation which Tallis gratefully accepted. After giving the order to a junior officer, Ertas took Tallis down the corridor and into an area the size of a doctor’s consulting room. It was cooler in here. The fan actually seemed to work, rather than simply rearranging warm air. There were two chairs either side of a large desk upon which rested a telephone and a number of buff manila folders. In the corner were several filing cabinets.

      Closing the door behind them, Ertas indicated for Tallis to sit down. Tallis noticed that Ertas was wearing a ring, a thick gold band inlaid with tiny precious stones. Although jewellery, particularly gold, was sold in abundance at the Grand Bazaar, with only a tiny charge for craftsmanship, it seemed like a strange affectation for such a seemingly precise and ordered man.

      ‘Before we begin,’ Tallis said, ‘I’d like some legal representation.’ He might know the form in Britain but here he was boxing in the dark.

      ‘Not necessary, I assure you.’

      ‘Then I’d like to contact my embassy.’

      ‘We can arrange this for you.’ Ertas smiled politely. He picked up a phone and, with a flourish, asked to be put through to the British Consulate. Tallis listened in as Ertas explained the situation. As far as he could deduce from Ertas’s side of the conversation, someone was on their way.

      The coffee arrived in traditional Turkish coffee cups. Both men took their time stirring in sugar. Tasted good, Tallis thought, taking a sip. Black and strong, it was a hell of an improvement on West Midlands cop coffee. Ertas spent several seconds surveying Tallis and Tallis spent several seconds looking at him. ‘For a man who has suffered a terrible experience, you seem very relaxed, Mr Miller.’

      ‘Probably shock. I haven’t had time to process it.’ Which was true. He’d witnessed men die in battle, seen the grotesque dance of bodies hit by machine-gun fire. He’d coldly observed the messy aftermath of suicide by shotgun, and the remains of turf wars played out on busy Birmingham streets, yet Garry’s death fell into none of those categories. Unexpected, cruel and apparently without motive, it felt strangely and horribly similar to Belle’s. The only difference: Garry had been a friend, Belle a lover. Tallis gave an involuntary shudder. He should be falling apart, he guessed, but he was too empty to feel anything right now.

      ‘And do you normally play Rambo?’ Ertas enquired.

      Cheeky bastard, Tallis thought. About time Ertas got up to speed on current American heroes. At least he could have chosen someone nearer his age. Sly must be almost double it. He gave a lazy shrug. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever been put in that position before.’

      Ertas leaned back in his seat. ‘We are trying to establish Mr Morello’s movements before he went to the Byzantine.’ ‘I wouldn’t know.’

      ‘He said nothing?’

      ‘We’d hardly had time to exchange much more than a greeting,’ Tallis said.

      ‘You don’t think he was followed?’

      ‘And the hit team tipped off?’

      Ertas smiled. ‘You use dramatic language.’

      ‘Killers, then.’ Tallis briefly returned the smile. ‘If he was, I know nothing about it. He certainly didn’t suggest to me that he was being followed.’ Garry probably wouldn’t have known. He had been too preoccupied, Tallis remembered.

      ‘And how did he seem?’

      Restless. ‘Hot.’

      ‘Troubled?’

      ‘By the heat, yes.’ He was playing hardball with the guy. He knew it. Ertas knew it. But, then, Ertas knew a lot more than he was letting on, Tallis sensed. We’re both playing masters in the art of deception.

      ‘We have witnesses who appear to think that you were the intended victim.’

      ‘Bullshit.’

      Ertas smiled again. ‘You are very direct, Mr Miller.’

      ‘My apologies.’

      ‘Not at all. I like a man who is straight with me.’

      Ditto, Tallis thought, meeting Ertas’s smile with one of his own.

      ‘So you really think the other witnesses were mistaken?’ Ertas pressed.

      ‘Others?’ He’d thought only the café owner had expressed a view. Careful, he reminded himself, you’re not supposed to understand the language.

      ‘Does it make a difference how many?’

      ‘Not particularly. Like I said, they’re wrong. In the heat of the moment, it’s quite easy to draw flawed conclusions.’ Tallis could have given Ertas a lecture on perceptual distortion, the firearms officer’s nightmare. What the brain couldn’t process, it made up. Wasn’t lying, simply the mind’s natural inclination to join the dots and fill in the blanks. It often explained discrepancies in witness accounts.

      ‘I’d like you to run through everything that happened,’ Ertas stated, ‘from the time you were seated in the café to the final tragic event.’

      Tallis did. Ertas listened. He interrupted only once. ‘You say the gun was a Walther. How do you know?’

      Damn, Tallis thought. No way could he bluff this one. Only way to go: tell Ertas the

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