Gregg Loomis - The Coptic Secret

Gurt, Lang and the priest watched the police car until it vanished among the trees before the latter spoke. "It is but a short trip up to the monastery. Come, we all can sit and have something refreshing to drink."

Lang smiled tightly. Once again, he didn't see any other options.

Buyukada

Twenty Minutes Later

Inspector Aziz sat behind his desk, glaring at the two passports as though ordering them to give up their secret.

The American, Reilly, and the Fuchs woman simply did not pass what he referred to as the smell test. The more a person's story varied from the inspector's personal experience, the more it smelled like meat left too long in the hot sun. Reilly and the woman would have him believe they had come to Istanbul and the Princes' Islands simply to visit the monastery of St. George.

Implausible but possible.

Of all of Istanbul's sights, a twentieth-century cloister ranked near the bottom. Still, there was no accounting for the quirks of Christians in general and Americans in particular.

It was the next part that defied belief.

For someone to risk not only apprehension for theft of the horses and rig but also chance breaking their neck to jump from the carriage to kill two tourists made no sense at all. In the first place, the felon had a knife-the owner of the phaeton had seen it. Why not use it?

For that matter, a gun, perhaps a rifle, would have done the job. The fact a firearm was not employed indicated the would-be killer probably had no access to one, no way to evade Turkey's stringent gun laws.

In short, an amateur rather than a professional criminal.

But jumping from the carriage?

The only answer Aziz could come up with was that the unsuccessful assassin had somehow known his prey would be difficult to kill in the close quarters a knife required. That would suggest two things: first, Reilly was not your ordinary tourist and, second, whoever had tried to kill him knew it. If that supposition were true, then who was he?

The policeman spun his swivel chair to face the monitor and keyboard behind his desk. A few taps brought up the Interpol Web site. He entered the password both for Turkey and himself. He now was into the international police organization's list of criminals and suspects.

He entered Lang Reilly's name and was rewarded with immediate results. Mr. Reilly, an American lawyer, had been suspected in the deaths of two street hoodlums in London several years ago, although there was insufficient evidence to bring him to trial. A few months past, he had killed one of the men who had kidnapped a wealthy British philanthropist. Aziz moved closer to the screen, squinting. Yes, that was what Scotland Yard's report said, killed an armed gunman… with a spear.

Hardly your average tourist.

The Fuchs woman did not appear at all.

But Reilly would bear watching. If he were up to some illegal purpose, Inspector Aziz would make sure he was the person to apprehend the American. Reilly just might be Aziz's own passport, one back to the mainland.

Monastery of St. George

At the Same Time

The buildings had been erected less than a hundred years ago but the place still had the air of its medieval cousins. From the outside, its most noticeable feature was the Orthodox, or Greek, cross atop its domed roof. Inside was the familiar four-sided open cloister surrounded by a roofed colonnade along which black-clad monks blended with the afternoon's shadows and passed just as silently. From somewhere inside, melodic chants flowed on air scented by the courtyard's multiple rosebushes. It could have been built in the early twenty-first century or the first part of the twelfth.

Lang found comfort in such anachronisms. They gave a sense of timelessness that said no matter how great the world's problems, civilization would endure and continue. By contrast, the individual's woes diminished.

Gurt set the her glass on the stone bench they shared while waiting for the prior. "Stra, he called it?"

She referred to the priest who had escorted them here and insisted they take some sort of refreshment.

Lang ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. "Somewhere between wine and grape juice, I'd say." He drained the last of it. "A drink for the abstemious."

Gurt looked at him with that expression that said she had no clue what he had said.

He changed the subject to one they both had intentionally avoided till now. "How do you guess they knew we were in Turkey? For that matter, they even knew we were coming here."

This time she was on familiar turf. "Francis, Father Fancy, used his church contacts to arrange for us to meet the patriarch of Istanbul, did he not?" "It was the only way I knew to get us in to see about getting the book translated."

"Perhaps his conversation was overheard."

"Not likely. I insisted he use e-mail. In Latin."

Gurt stood and stretched, her hands above her head. "Perhaps Latin is not as dead as you think."

"Meaning?"

She shrugged. "Meaning someone understood it, someone with a way to read the e-mails."

"That doesn't help a lot. In this day and time, hacking into someone else's computer is as common as housebreaking. Reading Latin, though…"

The conversation halted as a portly man in a black robe strode purposefully toward them. Had he not had a long beard, he could have been a priest or monk from the Roman Church.

He stopped in front of them, extending a hand. "Mr. Reilly? Ms. Fuchs? I am Father Stephen, the prior. The abbot, who is also the patriarch you seek, is at the library of the school of theology on Heybeliada, another of these islands."

Lang shook hands and waited for Gurt to do so before he asked, "Do you know when he will be back? I thought we had an appointment…"

The monk held up his hands, palms out. "I fear not. Although the school itself has been closed for years, scholars still gather at the library. His Holiness enjoys a good theological argument and tends to forget the time. He may return quite late."

Lang looked around the cloister, aware that some European monasteries allowed guests. "Any chance we could stay here for the night?"

The prior shook his head. "You, yes. The chapter forbids women in the cells."

Gurt's look said it clearly: Muslims were not the only sexists in Turkey.

The monk had also seen her expression. "It is an ancient rule, Ms. Fuchs. Both historically and today, men join monastic orders to pray and serve God with their full attention. For that reason, we have neither television nor radio. Only religious books are allowed. Women, particularly attractive ones such as yourself, are one of the distractions they wish to avoid."

Gurt appeared mollified if not satisfied.

The prior continued. "You may find it difficult to find lodging here. This is the peak of vacation season and the few hotels tend to fill up. I suggest you return to the mainland, where you are more likely to find rooms. The ferry to the mainland quits running at eight o'clock."

"But," Lang protested, "the patriarch, we need to see him!"

"He will be here tomorrow until about noon. He then leaves to go over to Istanbul for the baptism of a friend's grandson at the Church of the Savior in Chora. Although quite small, it contains some of the most beautiful of Byzantine mosaics. You might want to meet him there."

Lang had really wanted to stay at the monastery. Anyone who didn't belong would be obvious. Plus, another ferry trip would be sure to give whoever wanted him dead another try. At least in the city, he and Gurt might be able hide in the cosmopolitan crowds. They would certainly stand out less than on these remote islands.

"Please tell him we will look forward to seeing him at the baptism. I'll need only a few minutes of his time."