Clive Cussler - Crescent Dawn

They walked through a small fish market, observing a fresh catch of sea bass being unloaded from a small fishing boat. Ambling past a row of competing seafood restaurants, they selected a small waterfront café at the end of the block. A spry waitress with long black hair seated them at a patio table along the water’s edge, then quickly covered their table with meze, small appetizer portions of various Turkish dishes.

“You have to try the calamari,” Loren said, shoving a rubbery blob into Pitt’s mouth.

Pitt playfully crunched one of her fingers with his teeth. “A nice match with the white cheese,” he replied after swallowing the fried squid.

They enjoyed a leisurely meal, watching the sea traffic maneuvering down the strait, along with the tourists bustling through the adjoining restaurants. Finishing their seafood dishes, Pitt was reaching for a glass of water when Loren suddenly clutched his arm.

“Swallow a bone?” he asked, noting a tight-lipped grimace on her face.

Loren slowly shook her head as she released her grip. “There’s a man standing outside the door. He was one of the men in the van last night.”

Pitt took a drink from his water glass, casually turning his head toward the café’s front door. Outside the entrance, he could see a brown-skinned man in a blue shirt milling about the door. He had turned toward the street, obscuring his face from Pitt.

“Are you certain?” Pitt asked.

Loren saw the man steal a quick glance through the window before turning away again. She looked at her husband with fear in her eyes and nodded.

“I recognize his eyes,” she said.

Pitt thought the profile looked familiar, and Loren’s reaction convinced him she was right. It had to be the man Pitt had slugged in the back of the van.

“How could they have tracked us here?” she asked, slightly hoarse.

“We were the last ones on the boat, but they must have been close enough to see us board,” Pitt reasoned. “They probably followed in another boat. It wouldn’t have taken long to scout the restaurants near the ferry dock.”

Though he kept a calm demeanor, Pitt felt a deep uneasiness over the safety of his wife. The Topkapi thieves had proven last night that they weren’t afraid to murder. If they had taken the trouble to track them down, it could be for only one reason — retaliation for disrupting the burglary. The threat by the woman in the cistern suddenly didn’t sound so hollow.

The café’s waitress appeared and, while clearing away their lunch dishes, asked if they wanted dessert. Loren started to shake her head, but Pitt spoke up.

“Yes, indeed. Two coffees and two orders of your baklava, please.”

As the waitress scurried back to the kitchen, Loren admonished Pitt.

“I can’t eat any more. Especially not now,” she added, glaring toward the front door.

“Dessert is for him, not us,” he replied quietly. “Make a show of heading for the restroom, then wait for me by the kitchen.”

Loren responded immediately, pretending to whisper in Pitt’s ear, then slowly rising and moving down a short hall that led to both the kitchen and restrooms. Pitt noted the man at the door stiffen slightly as he observed her movement, then relaxed when the waitress delivered the coffee and dessert to the table. Pitt surreptitiously slipped a stack of Turkish lira on the table, then poked a fork into the thick slab of baklava. Taking a peek toward the door, he saw the blue-shirted man turn again toward the street. Pitt dropped his fork and rose from the table in a flash.

Loren stood waiting at the end of the hallway as Pitt rushed by, grabbed her hand, and yanked her into the kitchen. A startled chef and dishwasher simply stopped and stared as Pitt smiled and said hello, then squeezed past some boiling pots with Loren in tow. A back door opened onto a small alley that curved to the main front street. They hustled up to the corner and turned to head away from the restaurant when Loren squeezed Pitt’s hand.

“How about that trolley?” she asked.

An antiquated open-air trolley used to shuffle locals and tourists from one end of town to the other was moving slowly down the street toward them.

“Let’s board on the other side,” Pitt agreed.

They crossed the street just before the trolley approached and then quickly jumped aboard. The seats were all taken, so they were forced to stand as the trolley passed by the front of the café. The man in the blue shirt still stood out front and casually surveyed the trolley as it motored by. Pitt and Loren turned away and tried to screen themselves behind another passenger, but their cover was limited. The man’s eyes froze at the sight of Loren’s purple blouse, then he swung around and pressed his face to the restaurant window. Pitt could see the shock in the man’s face as he turned back and watched the trolley recede down the street. Quickly stumbling after the trolley, he yanked a cell phone from his pocket and frantically dialed as he ran.

Loren looked at Pitt with apologetic eyes. “Sorry, I think he spotted me.”

“No matter,” Pitt replied, trying to stifle her fears with a sure grin. “It’s a small town.”

The trolley made a brief stop at the fish market, where most of the passengers climbed off. Observing their tail still in pursuit a block away, Pitt and Loren grabbed a seat and crouched low as the trolley resumed speed.

“I think I saw a policeman earlier near the dock,” Loren said.

“If he’s not around, we might be able to short-hop another ferry.”

The trolley cruised another block, then approached its stop near the ferry dock. The old vehicle’s wheels were still turning when Pitt and Loren jumped off and scurried toward the dock. But this time, it was Pitt’s turn to grab Loren’s arm and freeze.

Ahead of them, the dock was now empty, the next ferry not due for another half hour. Of greater concern to Pitt was the appearance of two men near the dock’s entrance. One was the Persian from the Blue Mosque, pacing about the quay, alongside his friend in the sunglasses.

“I think we best find some alternate transportation,” Pitt said, guiding Loren in the other direction. They quickly stepped toward the road, where a 1960s-era Peugeot convertible rambled by, followed by a small group of locals on foot trailing it to the waterfront park. Pitt and Loren approached the Turks and tried to melt into the small party for cover. Their attempt failed when the blue-shirted man from the restaurant appeared down the road. Shouting to his cohorts on the dock, he waved excitedly, then pointed in Pitt’s direction.

“What do we do now?” Loren asked, seeing the men on the dock move in their direction.

“Just keep moving,” Pitt replied.

His eyes were dancing in all directions, searching for an avenue of escape, but their only immediate option was to keep moving with the crowd. They followed the group into the park, finding the open grassy field now lined with two uneven rows of old cars. Pitt recognized many of the highly polished vehicles as Citroën and Renault models built in the fifties and sixties.

“Must be a French car club meet,” he mused.

“Wish we could actually enjoy it,” Loren replied, constantly gazing over her shoulder.

As the group of people around them began to disperse across the field, Pitt led Loren to a cluster of people in the first row. They were congregated around the star of the show, a gleaming early-fifties Talbot-Lago with a bulbous body designed by Italian coach-maker Ghia. Working their way to the back of the crowd, Pitt turned and surveyed their assailants.

The three men were just entering the park together at a brisk pace. Sunglasses was obviously the team leader, and he promptly directed the other two men to either edge of the field while he slowly moved toward the center row of cars.