Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

As he walked from the hotel toward Taksim Square, Batty remembered Rebecca’s joy in immersing herself in the local culture. She had always embraced life with the unfettered enthusiasm of a child, and it was difficult to walk these streets without missing her.

Traveling with Callahan was a different story altogether.

“So here’s the drill,” she’d said to him as they boarded the plane in Sao Paulo. “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Broussard from Baton Rouge, taking our first trip to the Middle East.”

“Why the subterfuge?” he’d asked.

“There’s so much tension in that area right now that we don’t have much of a choice. My people tell me that not only can we expect zero cooperation from the Istanbul police, the government of Turkey doesn’t want us there at all. Fortunately, the country’s still cleared for tourists.”

Batty knew Callahan didn’t want him here. She was obviously someone who was used to working alone. But whoever was pulling her strings had insisted he go with her, and it wasn’t hard to deduce that she was unhappy about it.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she’d told him as they settled into their seats. “You’re part of this assignment for one reason only, Professor-gathering and providing information. You have a unique insight into this stuff and as certifiable as you might be, we’d be stupid not to take advantage of that.”

“Why do I hear a ‘but’ in there somewhere?”

“I sat in that bar and listened to your story, and I’m truly sorry about what happened to your wife, but I live by the credo that seeing is believing, and until I actually see something to convince me otherwise, I’m continuing this case on the assumption that what we’re dealing with here is a very clever, very sophisticated and very troubled serial killer.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I’ll be the first to admit it.”

After arriving at their hotel, Batty had watched as Callahan used a program on her cell phone to forge credentials for the Istanbul police department. In the photo she wore a scarf and looked very much like an Istanbul native. But then Istanbul was a mix of Turks, Kurds, Jews, Georgians, and just about everything in between, so that probably wasn’t saying much. The ID was written in Turkish, but he doubted it had her name on it.

“So who’s this?” he had asked, looking over her shoulder.

“The new forensics tech at the Istanbul Crime Lab. I want to get a look at the remains.”

“And what will I be doing while you’re having all this fun?”

“I already told you. Gathering and providing information.”

“Oh? What do you have in mind?”

“You’re going sightseeing,” she said.

So here Batty was, crossing through Taksim Square on the way to the Garanti Auction House, where Koray Ozan’s body had been found the previous evening. His task was to determine the exact location of the crime scene, and because Callahan was unable to secure blueprints of the building, she’d told him to check for entry points and potential security threats, then report back to her.

“What do you plan to do? Break in to the place?”

“I need access to that crime scene. And unless you’ve managed to get clearance from the local police, I don’t see any other way.”

“Seems pretty risky to me. The building’s bound to be wired up tight.”

“Let me worry about that part,” she said. “Your job is to observe only. Don’t get anxious and start sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You get yourself arrested, you’re on your own.”

The auction house was located a block north of the square and Batty didn’t need a street address to find it. There were still several polis cars parked out front, uniformed officers milling about.

The building was large, rectangular and starkly modern, with a broad set of steps leading up to the entrance. Above the sliding glass doors was a huge red banner, written in both Turkish and English, announcing a special black-tie charity auction set for eight P.M. that night.

House officials had closed the place immediately after the discovery of Ozan’s body, but the Hurriyet Daily News had reported that the auction would go on as scheduled. The exhibition room had been reopened this morning in order to display the pieces that were to be sold that night.

As Batty stood on the sidewalk out front, he felt a touch of trepidation, which wasn’t surprising considering what had happened inside. Overcome by a sudden reluctance to enter the building, he glanced around and noticed a tea shop on the opposite side of the street.

He crossed to it, found a table outside, and a moment later a waitress came out to take his order. “Yes?”

She was a petite, attractive woman in her early twenties. Her name tag read AJDA.

“Black tea,” he told her. “Extra sweet.”

She forced a smile, nodded, went back inside.

It was only then that Batty sensed something odd about the woman. He wasn’t sure what had stirred this feeling. There was no hint of sulfur in the air, although it could have been masked by her perfume or the smells of the city. Maybe it was that forced smile she’d given him or the strangely hollow quality to her eyes.

Or maybe he was just too paranoid for his own good.

As he waited for his order, he sat back in his chair and tried to relax, staring out at the auction house, knowing that his task was really nothing more than an exercise in redundancy. He didn’t need to see the crime scene to know exactly what had happened here.

All he had to do was close his eyes.

It took Callahan all of fifteen minutes to find Ozan’s remains.

The hardest part had been getting past the security checkpoint in the police department lobby, thanks to an overeager newbie who’d had to consult three different supervisors before letting her through.

In the end, the freshly minted ID and Callahan’s flawless Turkish had done the trick, and she took an elevator up to the forensics wing, where the antiquities dealer’s body was being stored for examination.

It frustrated Callahan that she had to go to these lengths just to get a look at the victim. Section had a contact inside the department, but he’d developed a case of nerves and had told them his ability to assist them would be severely limited. So Callahan was on her own and flying blind.

But then flying blind seemed to be her standard operating procedure these days. Section had tasked her to find out if these two deaths were truly related, but she still had no idea why .

Was it possible they believed there was a paranormal component to all of this? Was it possible that out of all the experts they could have paired her with, they’d offered up LaLaurie precisely because of his back story? And could this be why they’d insisted he accompany her to Istanbul?

These questions had been plaguing her ever since he’d told her about his wife. And Section’s failure to fully disclose what they knew about him concerned her. She’d seen them do a lot of questionable things in her time, but forgoing a deep background check was not one of them, and it annoyed her to think that they didn’t trust her.

She could only imagine what they’d do if they knew about her sleep irregularities and that episode back in Paradise City. They’d no doubt pull her from the field and eliminate her.

Section wasn’t known for its sentimentality.

She didn’t suppose their trust in her would be bolstered by her decision to send LaLaurie into the wild. But Callahan felt it was justified. Except for the two whiskeys he’d had in the hotel bar, he seemed to have gotten a handle on his drinking-had twice turned down the opportunity to indulge on the plane-and since Callahan didn’t have the help of any local operatives, she figured she might as well put him to work. He wasn’t a pro, but a little reconnaissance mission shouldn’t get him into too much trouble, as long as he stuck to protocol.