Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Khalif and Bravo strolled the narrow, twisting streets of the Avrupali Pazari-European Market in Turkish-which was actually run by e'migre's from the former Soviet republics. Russian or Georgian was spoken here, virtually no Turkish. Bare bulbs, strung from lengths of flex, lit up the colorful wares. There were no T-shirts or baseball hats, none of the commercial souvenirs that had become ubiquitous in Florence or Istanbul, more touristed destinations. Here the wares tended toward native crafts, rugs from all over Turkey, the hills of Afghanistan, even Tabriz, hand-beaten copperware, Russian nesting dolls. Dealers in imported vodka, local antiquities, Asian hashish plied their trade.

"As a student of medieval religions you're no doubt disappointed to see what's become of fabled Trebizond, eh?" Adem Khalif said. "Overrun by ex-Soviet citizens who consider themselves entrepreneurs-they're all chasing capital. It certainly has its amusing side."

"I can see why you got on so well with my father," Bravo said, "he always had a soft spot for philosophers."

Khalif chuckled. "Street philosophers, perhaps."

"I find it interesting that he didn't use you to keep track of the Knights of St. Clement."

"I didn't say that, exactly, but Dexter was keen to have an ear to the ground at all times, because he knew it's not only the elephant that can run you over."

"Meaning?"

"The Order is interesting and, in many important ways, useful, but as an outsider looking in it seems to me that its members are too concerned with the Knights of St. Clement and nothing else. Your father wasn't like that, he always had the big picture in mind. The constantly changing nature of the world-be it politics, economics, religion-was his meat. He moved in a far larger world than any of the others."

It had begun to rain harder again, in glistening silver lines, dots and dashes, like Morse code being broadcast from heaven. They were moving from street to street in a pattern Bravo tried to make sense of, but the labyrinthine twists and turns of the bazaar defeated all his efforts.

"Toward that end, he supplied me with massive amounts of equipment," Khalif went on. "Electronic eyes and ears of the most sensitive and sophisticated nature, so that I could record for him all the coded signals that day and night fly through the ether."

"All of them?"

Khalif nodded. "Massive amounts-you can't imagine. But he would come and sort all of it out. He knew what he was looking for, of this you can be sure."

"This wasn't official Order business?"

"Your father's alone." Khalif lifted a forefinger. "I'm bringing you to the Order's official representative now, so not a word. If there is any news you should know before you continue, he will have it."

They had reached a carpet shop. A young Georgian girl, no more than seventeen, was standing outside, hawking the wares. She had a slim body and dark eyes. Her thin hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

"Irema."

She kissed Khalif on both cheeks as he introduced Bravo.

"Father is inside," she said in Turkish.

"Is he busy?" Khalif asked.

"Always," she said with a shrug.

They passed through the narrow doorway, into a dim interior throbbing with Arabic dance music and dust. The walls were hung with carpets, which also lay in neat stacks in a checkerboard pattern across the floor, so that one was forced to take a winding path to the rear of the store.

Khalif grinned, flashing his gleaming gold teeth. "His name is Mikhail Kartli. You'll like him, once you get used to him." He put a warning hand on Bravo's arm. "This is a man, no matter his manner, who deserves your respect. He still fights the Azerbaijani and the Chechen terrorists. The Azerbaijan government wants whole areas to be renamed from the Georgian toponyms to the Azerbaijani-same with people's surnames. As for the terrorists, they continue to try moving their bases into Georgia. He spent six years defusing Chechen bombs. You'll see when you shake hands."

It wasn't easy getting within spitting distance of Mikhail Kartli. Cell phone to one ear, he was surrounded by a clutch of merchants, gesticulating like bond traders while calling out softly but urgently under the music, which served to mask their business from outsiders and passersby. As they approached, Bravo recognized not only Georgian but Russian, Turkish, Italian, Arabic being spoken. It didn't take long to realize that these weren't carpet merchants but traders in oil, natural gas, currencies, precious metals, diamonds, as well as arms and all manner of war materiel.

The heady stench of money was in the air, the confluence of sweat and greed, grime and blood, power and deceit. Here beat the heart of modern-day Trabzon, which, despite appearances to the contrary, was still a potent nexus point between East and West, currency and commodities snaking like veins and arteries into the four corners of the world, the flow of capital pumped with the speed of sound irrespective of race, religion or political affiliation.

While they waited, Bravo took a long look at the Georgian. He was as stubby as a pencil end, as tough-looking as a bale of razor wire. He had the wide-apart stance of a street fighter and carried his football-shaped head low in the bulwark of his shoulders, as if from long years of defending himself, his family, his country. His hair was thick, black and wild, fiercely growing low on his forehead. As a consequence, the paleness of his eyes, rimmed by long lashes, were startling.

In the middle of his personal chaos, he saw Adem Khalif and briefly inclined his head. Then his eyes slid toward Bravo, and they opened so minutely anyone else but Bravo himself might have missed the reaction.

Eventually, the music changed and the crowd thinned sufficiently for Khalif to lead Bravo to the Georgian's side, where he introduced them. Kartli held out his right hand, which consisted of thumb and forefinger only. Bravo gripped it, felt the pressure of the healed-over nubs that used to be fingers and thought of this man defusing Chechen bombs, thought of one detonating, taking part of the hand with it.

"Your father was a good man," Mikhail Kartli said laconically in perfect Turkish and, snapping his fingers, called for liquor. He took possession of the bottle, pouring the clear liquid into three water glasses. Bravo did not ask what it was. It was like liquid fire going down, and the afterburn tasted not unpleasantly of anise and caraway.

Kartli excused himself, finishing up the last pieces of his business. Then he turned the cell phone over to a younger version of himself-doubtless his eldest son-and they retired through a shadowed door in the rear.

A narrow, cramped corridor suddenly led out onto a bare poured-concrete terrace. An awning flapped above their heads. Rain pattered down on the crumbling city. Kartli stood spread-legged, a bantam fighter gazing down on the site of many victories. The small merchants with their painted dolls and their charcoal-braised cuttlefish, their burgeoning libraries of pirated DVDs of popular American movies looked up to him much as a small-arms dealer will genuflect before the trader in nuclear weapons.

He unfolded his arms, lit a thin black cigarette with a gold lighter. "This is not a civilized place," he said, seemingly to no one in particular. "To believe so has been the fatal mistake of many over the centuries, especially the Greeks, who came here first to tame Trebizond. The Venetians, as well, though they were more clever than the Greeks, because they were less trusting. But, in the end, Trebizond belonged to the Ottomans, and the Ottomans were not civilized, not at all. Look what they became. Turks! And then, more recently, there were the greedy Russians, speeding across the Black Sea as fast as their boats could ferry them." He shook his head sadly, throwing off the peculiar electricity of currency, as if even now he was manufacturing it somewhere inside his own body.