Gregg Loomis - The Coptic Secret

And them with it.

Almost afraid to move his lips, Lang said slowly, "I'm going to count to three. On three, we jump."

"And my bag? My clothes and makeup?"

Gurt might insist on being treated like a man, but she was still female.

"Were I you, I'd think more about whether you're going to be alive to use the replacements."

"But I do not know I can replace them here."

Lang repressed a sigh, trying not to reconcile Gurt's feminine worries about clothes and cosmetics with her ability to shoot a helicopter pilot in his aircraft from the ground as she had done during the Julian affair. To a man, women would be the last great unsolved mystery on earth.

Instead, he began to count, eliminating further discussion. "One, two…"

As though choreographed, two bodies leapt from the phaeton, hitting the hard surface of the road with a single thump. Lang's vision turned red, punctuated with blotches of color as his still-healing body responded with a jolt of pain that would have taken his breath away had not the impact already done so. There was a buzzing in his ears as he struggled both to suck air into his lungs and not to black out.

He fought his way to his knees, reaching behind him to make sure the Browning was still in its holster at the small of his back. Gurt was already on her feet, hand extended to him. "You are OK, yes?"

Lang took it and stood gingerly, determined not to show his discomfort. "I don't think anything's broken that wasn't already."

Together they stepped to the edge. Other than a single wheel spinning in the surf as if still on its axle, the phaeton had vanished.

A sound behind them caused both to spin around. Lang's hand was on the butt of his weapon.

They were looking at a small cart pulled by a donkey. Sitting on the board provided for the driver sat a man with a full beard. He was dressed in a black robe and a tall hat was on his head. He was regarding them curiously as if they might have dropped from the moon. For an instant, Lang thought he was looking at the reincarnation of Father Strentenoplis.

A monk from the monastery?

"Do you speak English?"

The man nodded gravely. "A little."

"You are from the monastery of St. George?"

He nodded again. "That is where I serve my church and my God, yes."

"That was where we were going when…" Lang trailed off, unsure how or if to explain.

The priest pointed to the top of the next hill. "It is there. You cannot see it because of the trees." He stepped down from his perch. "One of you may ride…"

Taking a closer look at the wagon, Lang saw it was full of fish and vegetables, no doubt from a market in the town below. "No, no, we wouldn't…"

Gurt led Lang to the cart. "My friend here is-was- hurt."

The man gave Lang the sort of look he might have used in appraising a new donkey. "When your carriage fell over the edge?"

Gurt and Lang started at each other as he continued. "I saw it as it was, was… balancing? Yes, balancing before it fell into the sea. I was not near to help and I feared if I made myself known, you might turn and…" He pulled a cell phone from the folds of his robe. "But I did call for help."

From whom, a sky crane?

As if on cue, Lang heard the pulsating wail of a police siren. A small white car with blue stripes emerged from a grove of cedars sculpted by the wind. A bar on top flashed red and blue.

Lang forgot his aches and pains for the moment. Arrival of the local police rarely heralded change for the better. It was certain the weapons he and Gurt carried would create problems if discovered. The last thing they needed was to be confined in the local jail where potential assassins could easily locate him. Visions of the prison of the 70s movie, Midnight Express, came to mind with all of its dark horror of filthy cells and brutal guards. At least that particular building had been converted to one of Istanbul's more luxurious hotels.

The car came to a stop amid swirling dust. The driver was in uniform, the passengers in mufti. A short bald-headed man with a mustache got out, holding his police creds in his hand. He was dressed in what Lang guessed might have been the only suit and tie on the island. From the backseat emerged a younger man wearing what looked like American jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt open at the collar.

The policeman pointed and asked a question Lang could not understand. The younger man replied in the same language, shaking his head.

The policeman gave a smile that wrinkled his round face but didn't reach his eyes. "I am Inspector Aziz," he said in almost accentless English. He did not extend a hand. "This man had his horses and carriage taken at the point of a knife. He tells me you are not the guilty person."

A good start.

"Your passports, please." The policeman's hand was outstretched.

Lang, always suspicions of both police and such requests, toyed with the idea of claiming both documents had been lost along with their baggage. He decided the ensuing problems with having no official ID outweighed his reservations. He and Gurt handed them over. The inspector flipped through both of them, squinting at the date of the recently purchased visas.

"You have had quite a bit of, of… excitement since your arrival in Turkey." To Lang's discomfort, he slid the passports into a jacket pocket. "Perhaps," he continued, "you would be so good as to tell me who you are and what has happened here."

Lang explained.

The inspector ran a finger across his mustache, a gesture Lang guessed was more reflexive than intentional. When Lang had finished, the dark brown eyes narrowed. "No attempt was made to rob you or the lady?"

Lang shook his head. "No."

"And you had never seen this man, the driver, before?" "No."

Again, the finger ran along the mustache. "What possible reason, then, would the man have to risk his own life by jumping from the carriage and leaving you to fall to your deaths in the sea?"

Lang shrugged, eyebrows raised at a question without an answer. "I have no idea, Inspector."

The Turk studied Lang's face carefully, his disbelief clear though unspoken.

The car's radio exploded in a rash of static and words. The uniformed driver acknowledged the message.

"They have recovered the horses," the inspector announced to no one in particular, "but there is no information about the man who took them."

Lang pointed to the hill where the monastery was supposedly hidden by trees. "Inspector, I, both of us, would like to continue on our way if you have nothing further." Lang held out a hand. "And I'd like our passports back."

Aziz seemed to actually notice Gurt for the first time. Perhaps it was an excuse to ignore Lang's request. "How long will you be in Turkey?"

Lang shrugged. "We want to see someone at the monastery. After that… well, there would be no reason to stay."

The policeman gave that chilly smile again and patted the pocket into which the passports had disappeared. "There are many reasons, Mr. Reilly. Have you ever taken a cruise up the Bosphorus? Seen the Blue Mosque or Topkapi Palace? Shopped at one of our bazaars?"

Lang held out his hand again. "Inspector, our passports. We cannot even get a hotel room without them."

Instead, Aziz handed over a business card. "Should you have problems without your papers, have your hotel call me."

Lang's patience was wearing thin. "You have no right to-"

The Turk snorted. "You are not in America, Mr. Reilly. Here, your rights are what I say they are, certainly as far as your passport is concerned. When I have finished my investigation, it will be returned to you. For that reason, I suggest you keep me aware of where you might be found. In the meantime, take the time to enjoy these islands and Istanbul."

It looked like they would have little choice.