Gregg Loomis - The Coptic Secret

Only a true amateur would enter where he could not see on a surveillance job. Or someone supremely confident.

Gurt knew the drill from years, of agency practice. She kicked over a trash can, stomped her feet and made whatever noise she could. The effect was to distract the watcher who had now become the prey. As he left the lights of the main street, Lang silently slipped from the shadows behind him. A sweep of the foot and the man stumbled, his arms flailing to give him balance. In one step, Lang grabbed both hands, pulling them back behind the man's back. Before he could protest, Gurt was rifling his jacket pockets.

She stepped back, holding a pistol in one hand and a wallet in the other. Jerking the man's arms upward until he grunted in pain, Lang frog-walked him to the edge of light from the street. Gurt held up the wallet. Something was shining, reflecting the light. Something like… a badge.

A policeman's badge similar to the one the inspector had displayed that afternoon.

"Oh, shit," Lang muttered.

Gurt had seen it, too. Holding the weapon up, she removed the magazine and emptied it of bullets before returning it and the wallet to their owner.

Lang let go of the man's arms. Even from the back, he could sense the anger.

"Sorry," Lang said. "We had no way to know…"

"Cowboys!" the policeman spat. "You Americans are cowboys, attacking a man on the street!"

"Attacking someone who was following us," Lang corrected. "The next time you shadow somebody, you might let them know you are the police, not a potential mugger."

"I may have you both arrested!"

Lang shrugged. "You may but only after you admit you did such a poor job following us. Had we been criminals, you could well be dead."

The cop made the motions of dusting himself off, more to give his hands something to do than a necessity. Lang's observation had quenched some of his anger. He tugged at his jacket and straightened his tie. "In the future, be more careful."

"I'd say Inspector Aziz thinks we must be up to something," Lang observed, watching the angry policeman return the way they had come.

Gurt zipped her purse shut. "That causes us no problem."

Lang wasn't so sure. "The next person following us may or may not be a cop. There's no way to be sure."

"Nor are we sure there will be a next person. Now, let us go to the bazaar."

Once more, Lang was amazed at Gurt's ability to seamlessly switch from possible danger to shopping opportunities. Was it just her or were all women like that?

Two more rug merchants approached them before they reached their destination, each nicely dressed, each speaking fluent English. Lang found it disconcerting to be accosted by strangers whose motive could vary from sales to murder.

They reached an ornately arched gate next to the Nuruosmanley Mosque where men made ceremonial ablutions at faucets set in a row before entering to pray. The bazaar itself was a labyrinth covered by a painted vault. Founded by Mehmet II shortly after the Ottoman conquest of the city in 1453, it had grown from its origins as a warehouse to the world's largest market.

The first corridor they entered was, according to several signs, Kalpakcilar Caddesi, a phrase that meant nothing to Lang or Gurt. Wider than many of the city's streets, it was lined with tiny shops whose windows displayed gold and diamond jewelry. These all appeared to be closed. On the right were bays and halls of establishments selling rugs, brass, glassware, leather goods, water pipes, bolts of textiles and many objects Lang could not readily identify. Contrary to what the hotelier said, many of these were open, their proprietors leaving their wares long enough to aggressively seek custom from passersby.

Lang was instantly alert. The constant movement of people made perfect cover for someone wielding a knife. Gurt sensed the potential, too. Without speaking, she joined him along the southern row of stores so the shops themselves protected their left flank, obviating the possibility of having to fire across their bodies should the need arise.

Dividing their attention between the ambling crowd of visitors to the market and the goods on display, they passed a small cafe as several young men were emerging. They all were bearded and wore the small, embroidered caps and vests common to Muslim men in the city.

One gave Gurt obvious attention. He took two steps toward her and snatched at the shoulder strap of her purse. Before his hand closed, Gurt gave his extended arm a chop across the elbow that elicited a yelp of pain and a quick retreat.

His comrades found this immensely funny. The would-be thief was now an object of ridicule, having been bested by a mere woman. Either to show off to his friends or from annoyance at the put-down, the purse snatcher flushed, stepped closer and drew back an open hand as though to deliver a slap.

Lang never even considered intervening. He knew what was coming.

The young thug had counted on the submissiveness of Muslim women. What he got was somewhat different.

He let out a surprised yelp as he found himself both airborne and upside down, followed by a thump as he hit the floor. He was still gasping for breath when Gurt delivered a kick to the groin that might permanently adversely affect any sexual endeavors.

One of his fellows made the mistake of rushing to his comrade's defense. He was greeted with a nose-shattering right hook that would have done credit to a professional boxer.

The rest of the group grumbled for a moment as if about to do something as painful as their two cohorts. Apparently they simultaneously recalled previous engagements.

Whether their collective memory had been jogged by Gurt or the approach of a uniformed policeman, Lang would never know. He did know having the cops arrive was rarely a good thing. This one, though, was doing a poor job of masking a grin that wouldn't go away.

"I apologize," he said in heavily accented English. "I have had problems with those, those… hooligans before. They steal what they can in the bazaars and frighten the tourists such as yourselves." He nodded to Gurt. "I would think at least two of them will go elsewhere." He watched as the last of the group disappeared around a corner. "I am… what? Shame, yes, shame for my city."

Gurt, not even breathing hard, smiled. "We are nothing but well treated here."

"I have been impressed by how very courteous you Turks are," Lang chimed in.

Except for one very bad apple on the Princes' Islands who tried to kill us.

The policeman made no effort this time to conceal a grin. "You have… what do you say? Teached them a lesson."

As he left, he couldn't resist taking one last look at the tall blonde woman who had physically beaten two men. Islam, Lang guessed, didn't have many Gurts.

An hour later, Gurt and Lang left the bazaar. He was carrying a box containing a pair of garish carpet slippers Gurt had insisted he buy. She had enjoyed haggling with the shopkeeper far more than he was going to enjoy the shoes. Where in Atlanta do you display red, blue and green footwear? Answer: at home where no one you know will ever see them.

She had purchased a pair of purses that had probably never seen France despite the double-C brass clasp of one of Paris's more chic fashion houses. As she had noted, the price had been right, an opinion she might change if they fell apart in a week or so. One thing was certain: the Atlanta Chanel store would collapse in laughter if asked to honor any supposed warranty issued by its Grand Bazaar branch.

They exited the way they had come in. They were greeted by the wavering wails that were calls to yatsi, the fifth and last prayers of the day, from the adjacent mosque.

They were also greeted by a group of scruffy-looking young men just outside the gate.