Although the Turks wink at a number of the Koran's prohibitions, homosexuality is not greeted with the same secular blind eye as, say, alcohol. Sadberk was politically ruined and his powerful friends outraged at what they viewed as an overzealous investigation to ruin a man who, like Aziz, had had a bright future.
The inspector had been transferred to turizm polist, tourist police, where his main duties had been to sit in the Sultanahmet district office in view of both the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, writing endless reports of lost or stolen cameras, wallets and passports. Even this had apparently not been enough for Sadberk's cronies. A year later, Aziz was exiled to Buyukada as though he had offended some Byzantine emperor.
Exiled or not, he intended to do his duty even if all that was involved was a pair of horses and a carriage, more likely borrowed than stolen. But first he had to calm the driver into coherence.
One again, the distraught man went through his story: a passenger had taken his rig at knifepoint. No, he had never seen the man before. In fact, the robber appeared foreign.
Aziz ran the tip of his index finger across his mustache. "Foreign? How?"
"He didn't speak at all, just gestured. He just didn't look like a Turk to me."
"Well, what did he look like?"
The driver shrugged as though saying it was the duty of the police to know such things. "Just under two meters, dark hair, brown eyes. Heavy, perhaps a hundred or more kilograms."
In other words, almost any adult male on the island.
"Did you get any idea where he was going?"
The man shook his head, bewildered. "On a small island?"
This time Aziz's hand went to his bald head. "No, no. Where on the island?"
A blank stare. "How would I know?"
Aziz leaned back in his chair and glanced at the stucco ceiling as though seeking the patience to endure this dolt a little longer. He was about to refer the man to someone for a description of his lost horses, one Aziz could easily imagine: long neck at one end, tail at the other, four legs each… when the phone on his desk rang.
Ordinarily, Aziz would have let someone else pick it up, it being unbecoming to his rank of inspector (albeit the only one on the island) to answer his own phone. Today, he would rather lose face than continue what was clearly a pointless conversation.
"Inspector Aziz," he announced.
He listened for a few minutes before thanking the caller and hanging up. "I think we have your horses and carriage," he said grimly.
VI.
Buyukada
Either he would find a way to grab the brake handle or Manfred would be an orphan in the next few seconds. Lang considered simply jumping until a good look at the stony ground told him the price of such a move at this speed would be much the same as following the carriage over the edge. The driver had known where the last spots soft with grass and loose sand were when he jumped.
Better to try something else.
If he could.
Lang unbuckled his belt, holding both ends in one hand. The first and second tries missed. On the third, he got the loop around his target. He threw his weight back as hard as he could, praying the belt would hold. Alligator was decorative but not as strong as the more plebeian cowhide. Muscles still healing sent a jolt of pain up his arms and across his back, anguish that brought tears to his eyes.
Still, he held on and pulled as Gurt, both arms around his waist, pulled him.
He heard the scrape of the wooden shoe against the metal rim of the wheel and felt the vibrations but the speed seemed undiminished. Then the curve was not rushing at them quite so fast.
One wheel bumped slowly over the edge and they were stopped, literally hanging over the edge of a very long drop. Three hundred or so feet straight down, the Sea of Marmara gnashed its rocky teeth in a swirl of creamy foam.
Gurt let go of Lang and started to step down to the ground.
Gravel crunched and the phaeton shuddered, edging an inch downhill.
Gurt froze in midstep. "I think the balance is not so good."
"Too good," Lang said, arms frozen to the belt still looped around the brake. "We move an ounce of it and well be in the water."
"And so? We stay here until someone come by and can help?"
Another movement by the carriage, slight though it was, answered that question.
"I don't think we have that long," Lang said needlessly.
As though to confirm the observation, a sudden shift in the breeze made the light rig lean another inch or so. Damn pity they weren't in a sturdy farm wagon. At least the top was down rather than adding to the potential sail area. Both Lang and Gurt remained still as statues as the rig swayed slightly in the breeze. At some point, gravity was going to claim it.
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?"