PIERCE SAT IN HIS room in the Istanbul Hilton, thoroughly exhausted. The constant traveling had worn him down, especially the two fruitless days he had spent in Beirut. He munched a sandwich and waited for the call.
He was almost finished now. It had taken six days, but he had most of the group. Only one man remained, the man he had sought in Beirut. The man who was possibly the most important of all.
The phone rang. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“This is Pedro.”
“I’m glad I found you,” Pierce said.
“So?”
“I want to meet with you.”
“So?”
“It involves big money.”
“Big money, big risks. I am a simple man. Do not tax my brain.”
“There is several million dollars in it for you.”
“You are crazy,” the voice said. “I am not surprised you went to Beirut looking for me. I have not been in Beirut for six years.”
“So?”
“I think we will meet,” the voice said. “The Suleiman Mosque, in an hour. No games?”
“No games.”
Click.
The Mosque of Suleiman the Magnificent, the warrior who made pyramids of human skulls, was located on the opposite shore of the Bosporus, overlooking the Golden Horn. Pierce arrived ten minutes early. He thought it prudent—if his man were really worried, he could observe Pierce at a distance first. He entered the mosque, slipping off his shoes and stepping onto the carpet. He was disappointed; the inside was ugly, cavernous, and uninspired. He wandered around for several minutes, hands in his pockets.
“You are early.”
Pierce turned to face a man of medium height, chunky and muscular, with a handsome though unshaven face, and eyes as cold and deadly as he had remembered.
“Hello, Pedro.”
“You can call me Nikos now,” Nikos Karagannis said. “I have a taxi outside. Shall we go?”
They drove through the winding streets of the old quarter, past the seraglio and the fringes of the kapali, the vast bazaar. Covering nearly a square mile, Istanbul’s open market was the second largest in the world after Hong Kong. It was a busy, teeming, colorful section of the city; vendors had set up portable displays on the sidewalks, and the stalls sold everything from luxurious brocade and Meerschaum pipes to Gillette razors. The streets were jammed with buyers, the air thick with dust.
Nikos directed the driver to a side alley, and they stopped near the end, entering a narrow, dilapidated house. He led the way up rickety wooden stairs.
“This belongs to a friend,” Nikos explained. “Not here now.”
They came to a hallway, and he opened one door. It was a small room with a small table and unmade bed. A girl sat on the bed, combing her hair.
“I told you to go,” Nikos said.
She looked up, eyes large, mouth pouting. She was a big girl, voluptuous in a tight red dress. Her hair was as black as her eyes and very glossy. “I know,” she said. “You told me.”
Nikos looked at Pierce and sighed. “I try to be a gentleman,” he said. “It was always my wish, as a boy. To be a gentleman.”
Abruptly, his hand flashed out, and he smacked the girl across the face. She gasped, more from the suddenness of the move than the pain.
His face blank, Nikos held the door wide and nodded toward her. She was struggling to control her features and maintain her dignity. She stood, threw her shoulders back, and walked out. Nikos shut the door softly behind her.
“I have only ouzo,” he said, going to the desk and removing a bottle. “Will that do?”
“Yes,” Pierce said.
“You are agreeable today, my friend,” Nikos said, pouring two glasses of the liqueur. “Do you need me very badly?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. You know, I have never killed a man before.” He stared reflectively at his glass. “It rubs me wrong, killing.”
“No killing.”
Nikos sighed. “I am relieved. Great money is always such a temptation; principles often suffer. You are sure no killing?”
“Yes.”
“Then we can talk further.”
Pierce sat down on the bed. “What is your nationality these days?”
“Greek. I have been Greek for the last six months, since my Lebanese passport expired. New passports are so expensive now. I had a good Turkish one, but it was stolen. Can you imagine? Something stolen from me?” He laughed.
Pierce laughed with him. It was really a ludicrous thought, for Nikos Karagannis was a superb thief. He boasted that he could steal anything from anybody, anytime. He had stolen a Ferrari from the Aga Khan, in Rome, to win a twenty-dollar bet. (He had later returned it for a sizable reward.) He had stolen the Golden Lions from the Venice Film festival three years ago. He had stolen four Rembrandts, three Copleys (during a brief visit to Boston), and a Giorgione during his career. He liked his work and was good at it.
He was handsome in a rugged, gruff way. His smile was broad, his manner open, and his mind unfailingly sharp. He was a natural athlete, with quick reflexes and fine coordination.
“I need an Egyptian,” Pierce said.
“Impossible,” Nikos said. “A decent Egyptian passport will cost you a fortune. They are very hard to find and must be well done—the government checks them carefully.”
“No passports, just nationality. Can you pass for an Egyptian do you think?”
“I was born in Alexandria.”
“That was a long time ago. How is your Arabic?”
Nikos snorted. “Better than your English.”
“Could you pass as an Egyptian among other Egyptians?”
“Such trifles.” He lit a cigarette. “Please do not insult me. How much money is involved?”
“For you, five million dollars.”
“How much in total?”
“Fifty million.”
“That is a great deal of money. It is by far the greatest robbery in history. You are ambitious.”
“I suppose.”
“Do not be modest,” Nikos said, waving his hand. “The Americans have always fascinated me. You, for instance—I did not think you were dishonest, my friend.”
“I wasn’t.”
Nikos shrugged. “Naturally. Who was ever dishonest until he saw the opportunity?”
“Are you interested?”
“Do you think I am a fool? Of course I am interested. But let us understand each other well.” The eyes, cold and gray, stared at Pierce. “Among ourselves, we will be honest.”
“Of course.”
“Do not say ‘of course.’ Say, ‘yes.’”
“Yes.”
From nowhere, the knife appeared and whished across the room to stick in the door, quivering. It happened with a speed that Pierce could not believe.
“No games?” Nikos asked.
“No games,” Pierce said, his eyes on the knife.
“Good.”