Chapter 1

The heavy tapestry drapes were drawn over the gauzy cotton sheers at the windows and the interior of the house was cast in deep gloom. The spirit and life of Nice`'s home had been extinguished although it's bodily functions continued. The gardener gardened; the maids cleaned; the cook cooked. Like a ghost himself, Michael wandered aimlessly from room to room.

He walked through the kitchen where the cook was preparing lunch. The big buxom woman peeled and chopped with a vengeance as tears ran down her cheeks. Onions, he thought. He looked again, potatoes. She continued chopping and silently weeping as he left the room and drifted out onto the patio which was still in morning shadow.

The patio hung out over the long lawn which stretched to meet the shrubs hiding the surrounding wall. Beyond the wall and visible far below lay the city of Thessaloniki, the bay, and the Thermaíkós Kólpos, an intense blue beneath the Meditteranean sun. Behind him, at the back of the property, was a sheer cliff that rose almost 300 feet and a precarious road clung to the cliff edge joining this side of the mountain to the valley beyond. There were no houses behind Nice`'s, only cliff, road, and the open park land which occupied the top of the mountain.

Beneath the patio, the old gardener knelt on the ground planting Spanish lavender around the balustrade. An aging and arthritic dog of dubious lineage sat next to him on the lawn, studying the placement of each plant. As he worked, the old man kept up a running stream of chatter to the dog. When he became aware of Michael watching him, he looked up and his eyes were red rimmed. Michael turned and went back into the house.

Eventually he found himself in Nice`'s room. The maids had been there. Everything was spotless; there were no clothes dropped casually on the chair, no shoes peeking out from beneath the bed skirt. It was dark, still, and empty. On the dresser stood Michael's picture, taken on Nice`'s boat the last time he visited. He picked it up and when he did so, the scent of her perfume and makeup wafted up from the dresser like an uneasy spirit. He sat the picture down. Reached out and flipped open a jewelry box. It was full of pins, necklaces, earrings. He picked up a diamond brooch, studied it, then put it back and closed the box. Nothing out of place. Nothing touched. Her entire staff had been devoted to Nice`. They would continue to care for her things as though she were here until, and unless, he told them otherwise.

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, placing his hand on the compass night stand as he did so. Years ago, before he left for Bangkok, he had taken a large brass ship's compass and had turned into a small table for her birthday.

It had been his first carpentry project and the carefully turned legs beneath the walnut case holding the compass had grown shorter as he sought to level the table. The entire table top was the compass face with a sheet of glass covering it.

When she had been a teenager, Nice` had a notoriously bad sense of direction. She had constantly asked him, "Which direction is north again?"

The needle swung and faced east. He was perplexed until he realized it was responding to the stiletto he kept strapped to his forearm. There was a small magnet imbedded in the end of the knife's handle and the compass needle pointed to it.

He moved his arm to the south and the needle followed. It was hypnotic. He pulled his arm away until it's attraction was balanced against the earth's magnetic field and watched the needle spinning, spinning, spinning. Lost. Searching for true north.

Cynara drove slowly down the winding road from the mountain top as she had done daily for the last week since Nice`'s funeral. She had expected Michael to return to the house afterward, but discovered that he had left directly for the airport. Foiled in her first attempt to meet him, she had been keeping track of the house. Too far from him at the funeral to even get a good look, she had settled for asking enough questions to determine that he was, in fact, not her lover as she had supposed, but some sort of step brother. Since Nice` had no other family, she assumed that he would eventually have to return and deal with her estate.

At one point, as the narrow road made a sharp left curve and the right shoulder dropped off the cliff into nothingness, she could glimpse Nice`'s estate below. Sitting in front of the house was a small black car. She sped up as quickly as her large Mercedes could manage and still handle the perilous curves.

Upon reaching Nice`'s home, she spoke into the house phone at the front gate and the big iron grill swung slowly open. She wound her way slowly up the long drive and parked behind the black Jaguar. Cynara checked a mirror and reapplied lipstick before she slid out and walked gracefully to the front door. The maid answered.

"Mam'selle Cynara. What may we do for you?"

"I saw the car in front from the road above. Is someone here?" Cynara asked.

"Monsieur Michael is in residence, Mam'selle."

"Good." She pushed past the maid and walked directly into the parlor and took a seat. "Tell him I'm here."

The maid had to knock at the door twice before it registered on Michael. "Enter," he said.

The door opened part way and the maid saw him sitting on the edge of Nice`'s bed, holding his arm in midair, staring at the night stand. "Mam'selle Cynara Cem is here, sir."

"Cynara Cem?" He looked up.

"One of Mam'selle Nice`'s friends. She wishes you to know she is here."

"I'll be right down," he said. She nodded and closed the door.

Cynara pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wadded it, straightened it back out and held it in her left hand. Then she arranged herself attractively on the sofa and considered the best approach. There was obviously something very mysterious about Michael, or the normally outgoing Nice` would have said more about him. He apparently came and went without notice and had money of his own. No one knew what he did for a job, or if he even had one. Obviously he had been fond of Nice` and she of him. Someone like Nice`, then. She decided she probably couldn't pull off that much naiveté. It was unfortunate she hadn't had time to get to know Nice` better. A more worldly Nice` would have to do.

Michael entered the room. The picture hadn't done him justice. He was taller than she, always a pleasant change. Built like an athlete or dancer. His hair had escaped an attempt to control it and was curling gently around his face. It was a disarming mixture of brown, red, and gold. And his eyes.... Penetrating green. She smiled a sweet sad smile and rose to meet him. "Monsieur, I am Cynara Cem, a friend of, of....." she faltered to a halt and clenched the handkerchief, raising her hand to her mouth. She appeared to recover herself and let her hand drop back to her side.

"Yes, and I'm Michael, her brother." He extended his hand. When she extended hers, he raised it to his lips and lightly kissed her knuckles, maintaining eye contact as he did so. Nice` was right. Anyone would find Cynara beautiful.

Extraordinary, in fact. She was near his own height with waist length straight black hair and eyes the color of.... He had never seen eyes that particular color. Gold? Orange? Her skin was a darkly burnished gold.

He indicated she should sit and did so himself on the sofa next to her. They made polite conversation. Both were well bred. There was a formula for this type of house call, and they both knew the rules. When the appointed half hour was up, Cynara rose and excused herself. Of course, he graciously asked her to stay for lunch. She, of course, gracefully declined. That was how these things were done.

She pointedly left her card on the hall table and cast one last long look over her shoulder at him as she left. He was watching her, and inclined his head, sketching a bow. Message sent. Message received. That was also how these things were done.

Now that was an interesting interlude, he thought. He knew from the servants that she had not been here since Nice` "died". He had only arrived this morning. Her timing was too convenient to be coincidence. She had obviously come by to meet him, and he wondered what Nice` had told her. Probably very little, he decided. Nice` could be close mouthed as a tomb when she wished, and she had always held his secrets dear. He tried to recall what Nice` had said about Cynara. She was intelligent, beautiful, and what was it? Something about her had bothered Nice`. Ah, he remembered, she hadn't been sure herself what it was. He almost smiled. Nice` and her over rated intuition.

The distraction Cynara had provided disappeared with her. He returned to wandering through the house and found himself in the library again. Michael sat in the desk chair and returned to dealing with the accounts and paperwork that Nice`'s considerable estate required. She had left everything to him upon her "death", with only some charitable bequests set aside. He didn't want it. Didn't need it. Didn't feel right taking it. He let out a long breath. Nice`'s household staff included 3 full time and 3 part time employees. He had to focus enough to make all the necessary arrangements.

He bent his head and memories of Nice` and he as children ran through his mind. The ramshackle clubhouse she had helped him build on top of the garage, their secret language and magic codes... His head snapped up and his eyes focused, not on the room, but on the past with sharp clarity. He looked down at the papers on the desk and smiled. He knew how to get Nice`'s money back to her and set up a way for her to let him know she was alive and well.

When they were young they had left notes for each other in code, all the words translated into numbers. His name, "Pseudo", translated to 16-18-5-21-4-15, her name "Pseuda", translated to 16-18-5-21-4-1. It was a silly childish code any fool could break, but they had been thrilled with it at the time. When he had first transferred all his money into a numbered Swiss account, he had told her should she ever need funds in an emergency that his account number was his name. Since no one except Nice` knew she called him Pseudo, it was a safe arrangement, and one she would remember.

All he needed to do was set up her accounts under Pseuda and transfer a sufficient amount of money from his to hers to catch her eye. If she found her account, she could transfer the money back as a signal. He frowned. Of course, that all depended not only on her being alive and well, but able to guess what he would do with her money. It was, he decided, only slightly better than no plan at all.

Now, the house. He looked around the room and saw reminders not just of Nice`, but of her parents, and their parents. Her paternal grandmother had brought the rug from Turkey with her when she fled a wave of persecutions against the Armenians. Her French mother, a close friend of his own father's younger sister, had placed a grand piano next to the bay windows and it remained there still, years after her death. The large oil portrait of Nice`'s Greek father hung over the mantel. He could not bring himself to sell Nice`'s family home, even though she would never see it again. That decided, he sat up arrangements for the continued maintenance of the house and staff.

The house, though dead in spirit, would continue on financial life support indefinitely.

************

Chapter 2

Kevi and Clarence were pinned down behind the big IATA containers, Ned behind the forklift. Soft "phhhts" from silenced weapons sounded along with the "pings" of ricochets. Four unexpected guards, hired at the last minute, were on a catwalk around the upper area of the warehouse with a clear firing field down into the center. Both sides of the open area inside the warehouse doors were lined with row upon row of floor to ceiling racks, stacked with IATAs, air freight containers, and crates.

Jean-Louis and Hans were still out at the gate, not realizing there was a problem inside the warehouse. Malik, Stefanos, and Dimitri were outside in the truck waiting for them to appear. Marshall ducked as a piece of the wall above and behind him gouged out and hit him in the back of the head. He rolled under the two foot clearance the bottom shelf of the container rack nearest him provided and came up on the other side. Safe, but completely out of position. He looked out from behind the row of containers and saw Michael walk calmly into the open center of the room, firing up at the guards as he walked.

A crash. A thud. Another crash, then piles of boxes falling. Another. Another. Michael stood still in the center of the open warehouse area. There was no more firing. His men stood and walked cautiously to meet him. Kevi said, "Thanks." The others nodded in approval. Marshall remained where he was and watched. Michael motioned to the boxes and the men fell to. Kevi jumped on the fork lift and began moving IATAs. Marshall came out from behind the racks and joined Michael. In less than 15 minutes the men had cleared all the weapons out of the airport warehouse and into the truck waiting outside.

Marshall could hear them talking as they walked to the truck, preparing to leave. "...nerves of steel." "Hell, the man's got no nerves at all." "f---ing amazing." "...got more guts than he knows what to do with." "Jesus. Never seen anyone walk into fire like that."

The men were at the truck and out of earshot. Marshall looked Michael in the eye. "Don't ever do that again. If you want to get yourself killed, don't take my men with you." He turned and walked away from Michael.

Michael returned to his office later that night. He sat on the sofa and thought about what Marshall had said. It was deadly accurate. He could have fired from behind the row of containers near him and had an almost identical perspective and range. It had been needlessly risky. Had he been killed, Kevi, Clarence, Ned, and Marshall would have been left pinned down without backup. The fact that he felt aimless and off balance didn't mean he should allow it to endanger his men.

It was too late to bother going to his apartment. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, and lay down. Not good. He sat up, swung his feet around and set them on the floor, then jerked them up off the icy cold marble. He braced for it and stood, taking off his holster and jacket and laying them on the back of the nearby chair. When he lay back down he used his overcoat as a blanket and curled up on his side. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he needed to buy another rug.

His first thought when he woke up the next morning was that some of the IATAs had been stamped in Turkish, "Cem Armaments Ltd." Related to Cynara Cem, he wondered? His second thought was that he had a crick in his neck and his feet were hanging out over the end of the sofa. He also needed to buy a longer sofa.

He put his socks and shoes on before he set his feet on the floor and walked over to find his billfold, taking out Cynara's card. She had hand written on it both a Thessaloniki and an Istanbul phone number. He called the Istanbul number and a servant answered.

"Is Mam'selle Cynara Cem in residence this week?" he asked.

"Oui, Monsieur. May I ask who is calling?"

"Tell her, s'il vous plaît, that it is Mam'selle Nice`'s brother, Michael."

"Oui, Monsieur. One moment please."

The servant found Nice` in the dining room, still dawdling over her breakfast of yogurt, green figs, and coffee. "There is a Monsieur Michael on the phone, a brother to a Mam'selle Nice`," he explained.

"About time," she said. "I'll take it in the library."

She seated herself at her desk in the library and glanced at the calendar as she picked up the phone. Three weeks since she'd left him her card. A less confident woman would have begun to think he wouldn't call. Cynara had been merely annoyed. "Cynara here."

"Cynara, this is Michael, Nice`'s brother."

"Yes, Michael. What may I do for you?"

"I wonder if I could impose on you to help me do some decorating?"

"Decorating?" she asked.

"I have a new office here in Istanbul and haven't had the time until now to decorate properly. Perhaps I could persuade you to help me?"

"Of course. It sounds like fun."

"Are you available this afternoon? I could show you the office."

"Certainly."

"I'll pick you up for lunch. 11:00?" he asked.

"Perfect," she said.

"Au revoire."

"Au revoire." As she hung up, she reached for her appointment book and crossed out the day's schedule. She took the book with her as she left the room. Passing a servant, she tossed it to him. "Cancel all of today's appointments for me," she said, and went upstairs to change.

By the time the office was redecorated he knew a great deal more about Cynara, or at least knew what she wanted him to know. She told him she was ten years younger than Nice`, or just over twenty. She told him that her uncle owned Cem Armaments after buying out her father's half of the company. There had been little love between the brothers. Her uncle, in her words, was 'unrealistic'; her father had been a good businessman. She knew a great deal about armaments having grown up in a family which made it their business.

What he knew that she didn't want him to, was that she was short tempered, less innocent than she pretended, and expected to get her own way in everything. Since she was damn good in bed he decided it was a reasonable trade off.

Two weeks later, however, Michael had decided that a little background check on Cynara was overdue. The inconsistencies had been piling up between what Cynara said and what he observed. He walked through the bazaar on a street where there was nothing but prayer bead stores. As he continued on, he passed into the district of stores that sold nothing but labels for bootleg designer clothing. Finally he reached his goal, the weapons district. He passed three men speaking Russian. Given the language and what they were shopping for, he correctly assumed they were Russian Mafia.

He wasn't there to buy weapons, however, nor to sell them. He paused at a shop that displayed bolts of material and stepped inside.

The shop keeper greeted him in Turkish and held up a bolt of brocade. He looked Michael over and when he reached his eyes, he froze. The skin on the back of his neck crawled. Michael's eyes were icy cold and deadly. "This way, sir," the shop keeper said, motioning to a back room. Michael stepped past him, through the curtain, and waited in the shops interior. Shortly a fat balding man in a rumpled white linen suit appeared.

"Michael," he extended his hand.

"Gaynard," said Michael.

"What can I do for you? This isn't your usual venue." He indicated two chairs with a wave of his hand and they sat.

"The Cem family. What can you tell me about them?"

"What do you need to know? The family background, the armaments they manufacture, their customer base?"

"The family itself," Michael said. "I know their business and customer base well enough."

"Hmm. Company was started by the old man, inherited by two sons. They fell out."

"Why?" interrupted Michael.

"Ismail didn't care who he sold to as long as they paid the bills. Mustafa did. Actually, Ismail was starting to run into the Turkish government on a regular basis. Personally, I think the company was headed for a government takeover. Excuse me, 'privatization'." Both men assumed a rueful smile. "Mustafa bought out Ismail. Mustafa follows the laws well enough most of the time, and bribes well enough when he doesn't"

"What happened to Ismail?"

"Died a couple of years back."

"Natural causes?"

"Debatable."

"Children?"

"One, a daughter. Her name is Cynara."

"What do you know about her?"

"Beautiful. Very exotic looking. Inherited a lot of money from Ismail. She's about 30, travels a lot, and rumor has it she can't keep servants or friends."

"30? Are you sure?" Michael asked.

Gaynard did some quick mental math, then nodded, "Yes, that would be about right."

"What do you mean about the rumors?"

"That family has always had rumors about them. Money attracts rumors. Ismail killed his wife. Ismail didn't kill his wife.

Ismail slept with his daughter. No he didn't. The brothers killed the old man. They loved the old man. Ismail was murdered. No he wasn't. Take your pick. People seem to find Cynara fascinating until they get to know her better, then they seem to shy away from her. She isn't good to servants, but a lot people aren't. Personally, I think the whole family is crazy, but what do I know?" Gaynard shrugged.

"What about the other brother, Mustafa? Children?"

"Two sons, one already in the business, the other still in college."

Michael stood and held out his hand. They shook. "If you hear anything you feel might interest me about the family, contact me."

"I will, Michael, take care." As Michael reached the door Gaynard called after him, "Michael, if you run across any AT-2 anti-tank missiles, I'm short a couple of cases for a shipment." Michael nodded.

************

Chapter 3

Michael and Cynara left the Balim Gazino, an upscale night club and casino, and walked the half block to his car. The temperature had dropped while they had been in the club, and the night air carried with it a nip that made Cynara shiver in her strapless gown. Michael slipped his jacket off and draped it over her bare shoulders before he started to open the car door for her. He was slightly bent over reaching for the handle and Cynara looked over his head. About ten feet behind him was a man pulling out a pistol, his eyes locked onto Michael's back, his intent clear. Without a second thought, she yanked a small pistol out of her evening bag, letting the bag fall to the ground and fired over Michael's bent back. The man jerked. He clutched his side, but he didn't drop his gun.

It didn't matter. So quickly she couldn't remember what happened, Cynara found herself flat on her back on the pavement with Michael standing protectively in front of her, his arm extended, his gun already fired. The shooter, whoever he was, lay dead on the sidewalk. Michael turned back and lifted her onto her feet in one graceful movement. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes," she looked past him at the body. He turned and walked over to the dead man and began frisking him for identification. Cynara's eyes glittered. She had actually shot some one. What a rush!

As Michael turned back toward her, she dropped her eyes. He rose and walked to her. Her expression controlled, she looked up at him. His green eyes showed amazement and respect. Perhaps the innocent approach hadn't been the best after all. "Thank you," he said. He reached out a hand and tipped her chin up to look her straight in the eyes. "Have you ever shot anyone before?" he asked.

"No," she answered. It was, strictly speaking, the truth. She had, in fact, never shot anyone.

"You didn't have to think about it?"

"He was going to shoot you in the back. What was there to think about?"

He nodded. "Very good." He opened the car door for her. They quickly left the scene.

While they drove back to her house, she asked, "Who was he?"

"I don't know, but I will certainly find out."

"What do you do that people try to shoot you?"

"Why do you take it so calmly?" he countered.

She shrugged. "I grew up in an armaments family. If people weren't trying to kill people, there would have been no business. One takes a certain number of things for granted."

"Your gun is too small a caliber," he said, changing the subject somewhat.

"I know. Did you ever try to fit a 9 mil in an evening bag?"

"Not recently," he grinned. Cynara started laughing.

Later that night as they lay in Cynara's big canopied bed, Cynara traced circles on his taut abdomen with one long fingernail. He caught her hand. "Now you know where that leads," he teased.

"Exactly." She said as he released her hand. She slowly spiraled lower and watched him respond. Michael really did like bed sports, and damn, but he was good at them. She lowered her mouth to him as she watched his face and was rewarded with seeing him close his eyes and gasp. Cynara was pretty good at bed sports herself, and once had certainly not been enough. Shooting someone, she discovered, had been a turn on. Michael had a very busy night ahead of him.

Cynara woke up first and lay looking at Michael. He really was beautiful. She decided to keep him. To do so she was quite sure she needed more than sex. Michael was too intelligent to be bound by only that for long. She needed to make herself indispensable to him. With any man, she thought, that meant business. She thought about it: guns, drugs, information. Had to be one of those to supply the money and the dangerous edge she saw in him. From previous conversations about her family it was obvious he knew a lot about armaments, far more than any drug lord would. She was pretty sure it was guns, illegal ones. That certainly put her in a good position to help. He could look for a long time before he found anyone who knew as much about them as she did.

She slid quietly out of bed and got dressed. When Michael awoke he found her in the library on the telephone, dispensing orders and looking like the competent businesswoman she could be when she wished. She smiled at him over the receiver and blew him a kiss, never missing a beat in the conversation. He managed to not look surprised nor too impressed. When she hung up, she rose immediately and went to him, cuddling into his arms. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning." He kissed her. "You're busy today?"

"Just took care of it," she answered. "That's what business managers are for. If they're good, you just give them the right directions. Are you free for a while yet this morning?"

"Yes."

"Good. Come down to the basement and help me find a gun that fits in an evening bag."

"You're serious?"

"Deathly." She reached around him to the end table where she had left her bag last night. "Let's go." He followed her downstairs and discovered that a large portion of the basement in her family home was dedicated to a shooting range and armory. The surprise didn't quite show on his face. "Well," she explained, "it is the family business. What did you expect?"

They finally settled on a snub nose .38. Not the impact of a .45 nor a 9 mil, but adequate stopping power. And it fit in the damn bag.

"You should let me help you," she said.

"With?"

"Your illegal arms business," she answered as if were an established fact.

Michael always managed to not look surprised. He didn't fail her this time either. "The business end?" he asked.

"No." She aimed the snub nose at a target at the extreme end of the gallery and fired six times. She reached over and hit a button and the target moved up the overhead line it was attached to until it stopped a couple of feet from them. She pointed at the target. All six shots had hit in a tight formation in the center of the target dummy's 'chest'.

"Think about it," she said. She let it drop and he followed her back upstairs.

It took another week before she convinced him that she could be of help to him. It took him a little longer than that to convince her that she didn't already know it all and could use some training.

"How do you get training for this?" she asked.

"There's someone who can teach you a lot."

"Not you?"

"I could, but I think you need someone else. I'll let you know in a couple of days." Only a crazy man tries to teach his girlfriend anything, he thought to himself. Marshall, where are you? He kissed her goodbye and left.

************

Chapter 4

There were no shadows darker than the shadows in Istanbul's narrow streets. The konaks, large wooden Ottoman style houses, near the Hagia Sophia extended their second stories outward, overhanging the first, until the houses on opposite sides of his path nearly met in mid alley above Michael's head. Just before he emerged into the open area in front of the Hagia, he stopped. Marshall stepped out of a doorway to meet him. They hadn't seen each other since a brief meeting following the armament snatch at the airport warehouse.

"Marshall."

"Michael." They were strained with one another for the first time in years. The silence was deafening.

"It won't happen again," said Michael, aiming straight at the heart of the silence.

"Good." Marshall's exhale of relief was audible.

They turned back to the direction from which Michael had come and walked side by side, their heels clicking on the cobblestone pavement. "I wondered...." Marshall trailed off.

"A family thing."

"Ah."

"Do we have a couple of cases of spare AT-2s? I owe some to Gaynard," Michael said.

"I'll find some for him."

"Good."

"What's next?" asked Marshall.

"I need to concentrate on intel for a while. I want a little wider breathing space here in Istanbul."

"Not a bad idea, mate. You could run out of cities." They both smiled. Michael noticed the use of 'mate'.

"How's your Aussie?"

"Can't cook worth a damn."

"Otherwise?"

"f---ing fantastic."

"Hire a cook."

"I did."

They stepped out of the end of the alley and into a section of small cafes and coffeehouses that serviced the local hostels.

Michael led the way into a coffee house. They seated themselves in the back near a rear entrance and where they could watch the front door. It was instinct and training. They had both automatically headed for the same table. The ones surrounding it were devoid of people. After their coffees arrived, Michael leaned back and looked at Marshall. "How do you feel about working with women?"

Marshall shrugged. "Had a former Israeli Sabra working for me the year before I met you. Hell on wheels, she was. Depends on the filly, don't it?"

"Yes." He was thoughtful. "The one I have in mind is not experienced. You'd have to train her."

"I'm listening."

"She won't be easy to guide. Very headstrong. Control freak."

"I'm used to working with one of those," Marshall said with a totally deadpan face.

Michael ignored the jibe. "Good shot. Rudimentary hand to hand skills. Intelligent. Beautiful. Excellent knowledge of armaments."

"Name?"

"Cynara Cem," Michael said.

Marshall frowned. "Cem Armaments?"

"Her uncle." Marshall was completely silent for so long that Michael couldn't miss it. "What is it, Marshall?"

"You going be along, right?"

"Right." Michael waited.

"I heard...," Marshall began, paused, looked closely at Michael. "She a friend of yours?"

"In a manner of speaking. You heard what?"

"I thought that family was supposed to be....a little unstable. I'm sure it's just a rumor," he added quickly.

"Train her. Watch her. This isn't cast in concrete. Anything else?"

"No one else in the group knows who you are or where you live, do they? Sounds risky. Break in procedure and all that."

"I'll be careful," Michael said.

Marshall gave him a long hard look. "Careful like at the airport warehouse?"

"No. Careful."

"Right you are." Marshall was still frowning.

"What else?" Michael asked.

Marshall let out a long breath. "I swear, getting superstitious in my old age, I am. Eight good men we have. Had a ninth, the bloke was crazy and you had to shoot the son of a bitch, you did. Back to eight. The game plays. Add a ninth again, he shoots off his mouth and brings us a mole, he does. I'm thinking nine is an unlucky number, I am."

Michael smiled. He didn't believe in superstition or intuition either one. Instinct was a totally different matter, of course. "Maybe making the ninth one a woman will change the luck."

"Maybe," Marshall said grudgingly. "When do I meet her?"

"Tomorrow night. I'll bring her to the office. Meet me there at 9." They rose and shook hands. When they left the cafe, they walked off in different directions, both checking the shadows as they went.

"...day and night," continued Marshall. "You will wake when I say wake and sleep when, and if, I say sleep. You will run, you will do push ups. You will practice hand to hand until you drop. I guarantee you by the end of six weeks, you will be in the best condition you have ever been. And you will hate my guts, you will." He paused and studied the effect on Cynara. There was none. That was either good, or over confidence. Time would tell. He looked at Michael who was sitting on the long deep burgundy leather sofa, pointedly ignoring them both. That was definitely good.

"Any questions?" he asked.

"When do we start, and where?" she asked.

"We leave tonight, training starts at 5 AM tomorrow morning."

"Where?"

"Well, you'll find out when we get there, won't you?" He rose and walked to the door across the gold oriental carpet. "Coming?"

"Now?"

"Now."

She glanced over at Michael who finally looked up at her and nodded. Her smile goodbye had an uncertain quality. This was not the farewell she had planned, but she followed Marshall out of the room.

Marshall had no intention of letting Cynara know anything about himself, his life, or even his last name until he felt a lot more comfortable with her. Six weeks of training might do it. Or six years. She was beautiful, no denying that. Michael always had taste in women. But he didn't trust her. Didn't like her. Didn't know why. Her Dad had been a real slime, he had. Met him once. Not the girl's fault, of course.

Michael stood at the window and watched them walking to Marshall's car. He knew Marshall would take her to a training site that she couldn't back track to him, Michael, or any one else in the group. Very careful was Marshall. Also, he obviously didn't like her. How much of that was because deep down, he didn't feel women belonged in this business?

How much of it was jealousy? Was Marshall feeling displaced? There was no reason for him to. Michael had made it clear that Marshall was in charge of her, not the other way around. Of course, he didn't sleep with Marshall. Michael could hardly pretend she was a casual recruit.

More than anything he wondered if it were a terrible mistake. She might know a lot about armaments, but she had never killed anyone. Only shot someone once, and to protect him at that. Had he just dragged an innocent into a life of corruption?

He looked up at the night sky. There was no moon. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass pane of the window. Could he be any worse than he already was? Could it get any darker?

************

Chapter 5

Michael turned into a narrow street just past a building with tiny blue glass tiles inlaid around it for about three feet up from its base. Larger blue tiles, bearing ornate script, were fixed around the building near the roof line. The narrow street sloped sharply down hill as he followed it. On both sides of the street, businesses, cafes, tiny shops, and apartment buildings were set touching one another, no space between them.

Finally a narrow street led off to the right, little more than an alley, but it too was lined cheek to jowl with doorways leading into more apartments, houses and small businesses. It was darker than the main thoroughfare he had been on, and considerably less populated. There were fewer people, and those who walked the little street hurried along their way.

Another, still smaller outlet went off again to the right. Doorway after doorway after doorway, none labeled or marked in any way, lined the narrow street. In almost every doorway stood a couple of women, in many stood young men. They all beckoned to Michael as he passed them. Some stood with clients, dickering over the price. The street was crowded by the second oldest profession in the world.

Michael belonged to the oldest. He wasn't buying sex, he was buying information.

He knocked on a door that looked like all the others except for it's lack of hookers standing outside. Someone on the other side of the door spoke in Turkish. He answered and the door opened. His guide led him down a dark narrow hallway to another door with a large well armed guard standing beside it. The guide entered, leaving the door open and

Michael standing outside. The guard demanded his gun. Michael stepped forward until he was less than a foot from the man and looked him coldly in the eye. "No." Their languages didn't match, but it didn't matter. They understood one another clearly enough. They stood like that for a full minute before the guard stepped aside and Michael entered the room.

Inside the smoke filled room were 10 men. A couple sat on pillows on the floor, smoking from water pipes, two more lay on the floor, doing the same with slow, lazy movements. In the center of the room there was a table game in progress. Six men, some in suits and some in native dress, sat around the table. There was an large heap of money on the table, in the currency of half a dozen countries. Around the perimeter of the room were five other men, with guns out but their arms down at their sides. The walls of the room had dozens of holes chipped in them, all at body height, sculpted by the impact of various caliber bullets. The red glass shade that hung over the center of the table had a section of glass shot out.

Michael sat down and joined the game. He and the others in the game exchanged desultory comments from time to time.

After a half hour, Michael stood up and exchanged bows and handshakes with the others at the table. He opened the door and left. The guard stepped aside and he walked down the long hallway and stepped back out into the alley.

Once outside he took several deep breaths to help clear his head of the lingering smoke from the opium den. He stood quietly until he felt his bearings return to something close to normal and quickly left the district. When he reached the building with the blue tiles he made a sharp right turn and walked half a block to a nearby coffee shop. Two cups of Turkish coffee later, he felt like himself again. Mental note, he thought, take a bodyguard next time. Balls don't cover your back.

As he left for his office, he counted it a well spent evening. It had been a "two-for". His list of needs included: one top banker, the police commissioner, and Istanbul Section chief. The information he had acquired in the opium den would hand him the first two. When he reached his office, he kicked off his shoes, dug his toes into the thick wool oriental, and called Bonn.

He quickly charmed the secretary again before she passed him through to Herr Lerner's private line at the Bonn bank. When Lerner answered, Michael said, "This is Michael..."

Michael had learned long ago that the planet was comprised of many parallel worlds: government, legal, criminal, financial. The government world for example, contrary to popular belief, wasn't nationalized. A government leader in England knew more about the government leaders in Germany, or Turkey, or Russia, than he did about his own tailor. The banking world was similar. If you wanted the goods on a Turkish banker, ask a banker.

"...so he is laundering funds for the Police Commissioner?" asked Lerner.

"Exactly."

"What do you need?"

"Bank record proof. Enough to get him arrested."

"Involving the Police Commissioner?"

"No. I can handle that. Just get me what I need on the head of the Istanbul Bank, Abdul Barduk," said Michael.

"How long do I have?" asked Lerner.

Michael considered that. Giving Lerner too long to think about it wasn't a good idea. "A week."

"I can have it send to you by special courier," offered Lerner.

"No. Send it to the regular address. Just don't be late." Was Lerner angling to find out his location or just trying to be helpful? Next call had better be to Lizette. Always best to be sure, Michael thought as he hung up. He placed a quick call to Lizette to have her follow up on Lerner.

Before he went to work on the Section chief, he made yet another round of calls trying to track down who had hired the man that had taken a shot at him. The body had been totally clean of identification, hardly a surprise. That simply spelled 'professional', but not, Michael thought, a very good one. The shooter had been too close and too slow. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his head, stretching his back. Who would want to kill him? OK. Too many names. Who didn't want to kill him? People who didn't know him. This line of thought wasn't working.

He picked up the phone and called Myrtle in Berlin. "Hello, Myrtle. This is Michael."

"LOVER BOY!!" she shrieked.

Michael winced and held the phone out away from his ear. Carefully bringing it closer again, he spoke in his usual soft voice, "Myrtle, how is everything working out with the club?" He quickly pulled the receiver away.

"Oh, Lover Boy, it's JUST divine!! Candace was SUCH a darling to sell it to me. You SWEET THING, when are you coming to see your POOR old Myrtle?" Her falsetto was piercing.

He inched the receiver closer. "I'm quite busy right now. But I could use a little information if you have time." He backed off again and almost missed the husky baritone response.

"Lover Boy, you come see Myrtle in person, she'll tell you anything you want to hear."

Michael closed his eyes, sighed, and pictured Myrtle: 5' 6", 370 pounds, purple hair, and a nose ring. God, he missed Candace. "I'm sure, Myrtle, but right now that's just not possible. Someone took a shot a me a week ago here in Istanbul. I want to find out who hired him. Also I'm trying to get intel on the local Section One chief."

There was a short blessed silence on the phone. It didn't last long. "LOVER BOY!" shrilled Myrtle, "Why aren't you talking to CARLA?"

"Because I don't know Carla."

"Well just you wait. You are gonna LOVE Carla. She is just the SWEETEST little old thing you EVER met."

"I'm sure."

"NOT as sweet as your little Myrtle, of course."

"Of course not. Where do I find Carla?" He listened to her directions and finally extricated himself from the conversation.

"Auf Wiedersehen, Myrtle."

"Kiss, kiss, Lover Boy."

Maybe it could wait until after dinner, he decided as he hung up. He slipped his shoes back on, shrugged into his jacket, and left the office.

Just as he reached the Jaguar, he had a sense of too much 'stillness'. The street was quiet and nearly empty. Instinctively, he hit the pavement, gun drawn. Three bullet holes appeared in the Jag's door. He rolled to the front of the car, placing it between him and the shooter. Chunks of cobblestone spit up at his feet and peppered his chest. At the head of an alley across the street he saw a simultaneous flash. He fired several times in rapid succession as he stood and vaulted across the street towards the alley entrance. The first two shots pinned the assailant, the third killed him. Keeping an eye out for other shooters, he quickly frisked the body. Again, no identification. This one, however, had been better at his job. It was not an acceptable progression.

He found the Bebek Cabaret near the backside of the nightclub district. A flight of stairs led down from the sidewalk to a basement entrance. A small discrete sign hung over the door. Two bouncers stood at the top of the stairs; he assumed a third and possibly fourth one stood just inside. It was quiet, understated, and not at all what he expected. As he approached the stairs, one of the bouncers held his hand up, palm out, to signal Michael to stop. He did. "This is a private club, sir," he said politely in Turkish. The second bouncer repeated the statement in French, also politely.

"I'm here to see Carla. Tell her Myrtle sent me," he explained. Bouncer number one pulled out a comm unit and announced his arrival.

He listened for a moment, then said, "Carla was expecting you. Please go in sir."

"Merci."

The other two bouncers were waiting inside the club door. One of them stepped forward and said, "Carla is at Table 2, sir. Monique will escort you."

He had no sooner spoken than a very tall blonde in slinky blue satin appeared at his side. "This way, s'il vous plait." She guided Michael to table two and he got his first look at Carla. She extended her hand. He quickly kissed her knuckles as was clearly expected. She motioned to the seat opposite her and he sat. They sized one another up for a few moments without speaking.

She almost looked like a twin to Jay Davidson in The Crying Game. Wavy dark, shoulder length hair, brown eyes, tastefully attired in a long beige silk gown. The question in Michael's mind was whether it was an improvement over Myrtle, or far worse.

"Myrtle called and told me you would be in touch, Monsieur Michael. She said I was to help you in any way I could. What do you need to know?" Her voice was a soft alto.

He briefly outlined the two attacks on him that had occurred, including locations, descriptions, and the noticeable lack of identification. He explained to Carla what areas he had already checked to prevent her doubling the effort.

"I see. Is there more? Myrtle indicated a...." Carla glanced quickly around her to be sure their conversation was still private. "...larger entity might be involved."

"I require information on the structure and personnel of the larger entity. As to whether or not they are involved in the attempts, I have no idea."

She looked thoughtful. "I shall be in touch as soon as I hear anything of use. The Berlin number?" she asked. Obviously Myrtle had briefed her thoroughly.

"Yes," he replied. "The remuneration?"

"Will be proportionate to the value of the information. Au revoire, Monsieur." She held out her hand, knuckles up.

Michael stood and decided that manners ruled. He treated her as she expected to be treated. Looking under her skirt wasn't required. He kissed her knuckles and left.

************

Chapter 6

The packet of information arrived from Herr Lerner by the end of the week. It was clear, complete, and incriminating. So good, in fact, it didn't even need to be falsified. Abdul Barduk, Michael observed, was not an honest man. Shocking. One expected so much more of a banker.

He called the bank and requested an appointment with Mr. Barduk. He was, of course, advised that it was nearly impossible to get an appointment with Mr. Barduk, but that one of the junior officers would be more than happy to speak with him. He offered Herr Lerner's name, and that of his Geneva banker as references and waited. Mr. Barduk's secretary came on the line and arranged an appointment for the following morning.

The following morning Michael stood outside Mr. Barduk's office, chatting pleasantly with his secretary, Sali Apkan. She was a petite lady in her mid-thirties with short curling blonde hair and reminded him faintly of Nice`. He had just learned that she collected old playbills when her intercom indicated he could go in for his appointment, she extended her hand, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur."

He kissed her hand, noticing the wedding band as he did so, "And yours, Madame."

His charm was almost immediately lost on Mr. Barduk who seemed to appreciate it not at all. He sat glaring at the packet of information Michael had placed on the desk in front of him.

"This is what you will do," Michael said. "Once a week you will make out a complete report of the week's activities. It will include everything you know, from banking decisions to whom the Admin's are sleeping with. You will mail it to the address on the note in front of you. If anything urgent or unusual occurs, you will not wait until the end of the week, but will send the information immediately. Do you understand?"

Barduk looked down at the note paper in the file in front of him. On it was typed an address. It contained no further information. He looked up at Michael and nodded. "I understand."

Michael stood and walked to the desk, holding the man's eyes with his own. "You will continue doing this forever. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You may be told to do something else. This is unlikely, but possible. If it occurs you will perform without question."

"How will I know the order comes from you?" Barduk asked.

Michael's eyes narrowed, "You will know. It will be signed simply, 'Michael'. If I call you, I will simply say, 'This is Michael.' If your position here is threatened, you will explain that in your reports. The threat will be eliminated. Both you and your position will be protected."

"What else?" Barduk asked.

"I need sufficient information on the illegal money laundering done by the Police Commissioner to incriminate him. Since you handle the laundering for him, this should not be a problem."

"When?"

"Now. I'll wait and you'll hurry." Barduk rose and shakily left his office. Michael strolled over to the bookcase and was pleased to find a copy of the book he had been in the middle of reading on the shelves. He located his place and sat down, reading contentedly until Barduk returned with a mountain of evidence. After carefully checking the information to determine it was sufficient to his purpose, he placed it in his briefcase.

"Good day, Mr. Barduk, it's a pleasure doing business with you." Barduk only nodded, his face a little sick. Michael stopped at Madame Apkan's desk on his way out and bid her adieu.

Mr. Barduk's name was adequate to gain entrance to the Police Commissioner, Comm. Depkil. Michael sat across the desk from him. The commissioner had run through the color chart from dead white to deep burgundy and was now a pale gray. He stared glassily at the portfolio in front of him.

"What do you want?"

"Most of all to be left alone. To conduct business in peace. There are a few other small requirements."

"Such as?"

"This is what you will do," Michael said. "Once a week you will make out a complete report of the week's activities. It will include everything you know, from........"

Two down, two to go.

He went home by way of the Shaflar Cadessi. The street itself was only a short curving passageway, and the book stalls were sparse. The tourist season had hit Istanbul and the little area known for its old Ottoman prints was seriously depleted. There were no playbills at all. He called his favorite art dealer in Paris from his cell phone and left a message.

He finally got to finish the book, Musashi by Yoskikawa.

The middle of the following week Carla left a message on his Berlin number. He waited until evening and left for the club district. The bouncers outside remembered him. "Bon soire, Monsieur." They waved him past.

Monique appeared before he could speak to the two inside. "This way, Monsieur."

Carla was still at Table Two, apparently her regular place. Tonight she had on a dark gold silk gown and smiled as she extended her hand. He kissed her knuckles and sat down.

"Bon Soire, Monsieur Michael," she said in her soft alto.

"Bon Soire, Mam'selle Carla. You've heard something?"

"Oui. I have one of your answers. The man who tries to kill you is Chandre Biliel. He is a new comer in armaments and thinks to start at the top by taking you out."

Michael nodded. "I respect his strategy, but his performance is inadequate. He has no idea the organization he is challenging."

"I think not."

"Where may I find him?"

She slid a piece of paper across the table to him. He glanced at it, "Yes, I know this area."

"Take care. He has friends among the police."

"I have servants among the police," he said.

Carla's eyes lit up and her mouth quirked in amusement. "Much more useful."

"I thought so," he smiled.

"I have no news yet on the larger entity. I expect something within the week. One must be very careful, you understand."

"I understand. I await your call."

"Are they good servants?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Well placed," he responded.

"I am frequently inconvenienced by police raids. They do not approve of....." her voice trailed off, she lifted an eyebrow, and delicately waved a hand to indicate herself.

"The inconvenience will cease."

"Merci, Monsieur."

"And your remuneration for this first piece of information?" he asked.

"Has just been paid."

He rose to leave. She extended her hand again, and again he kissed her knuckles. Before he left, she stopped him, "Monsieur, one appreciates your good manners." He inclined his head in a brief sketch of a bow and departed. Whatever else she was, he decided, she was also a lady.

He planned to keep his head down until Marshall returned. A raid on Biliel's domain would be a good first run for Cynara. He cased the area over the next week and formulated a plan for the raid.

Most of all, he waited for Carla to call.

************

Chapter 7

The bad news over the next couple of weeks was that the chief of the Istanbul station was on the up and up. Apparently not everyone in Section was a convict. He had an unimpeachable background in the military and seemed to live an unblemished life with no hidden sisters, brothers, wives, children, or other weaknesses. Carla's informants worked their way down the food chain in Section One and found other candidates. Michael built files on them and tried to determine the best approach.

In the meantime, his art dealer sent the original of the playbill from Diagliev's Ballets Russes by Leon Bakst, 1921. Rendered in pencil, watercolor, black chalk, gouache, and metallic paint on paper, it was so delightful it brought a smile to Michael's face when he opened it. It was a sketch of Puss in Boots in full musketeer costume, gold gloves, thigh high boots, red sash and all, from "The Sleeping Princess". The upright tiger striped cat had its fangs bared and ears flattened, one gloved paw raised in threat. He wrapped it and sent it to Madame Apkan with his regards.

Carla called again, her voice pitched a little higher with excitement.

"He's being transferred."

"To where?"

"He's taking over control of headquarters. We're getting a new section chief."

"Do we know who yet?"

"Not yet. It will take a while to gather intel on a new one. But it has to be an improvement," she assured him.

"Keep me informed. Do you need anything?" he asked.

"Nothing you can help me with." The excitement had faded and she sounded a little down.

"Are you sure?"

"A new boyfriend? I don't think so."

"I'm sorry you're having problems in that area."

"He's cheating again. What can one do?"

"Don't sell yourself short, Carla. Hold out for one that deserves you." He surprised himself when he realized he meant it.

"Merci, Michael. You are a gentleman. Au revoire."

"Au revoire, Carla."

Speaking of bedmates, he thought, and glanced at the calendar. Another week before Cynara returned. It had been a long five weeks. Michael was disciplined, but not accustomed to abstinence.

At the end of the following week, Marshall called. "We're back."

"And?"

"Her skill levels are good."

"And?"

"Meet you at your office?"

An hour later Marshall knocked on the office door. "Enter," Michael said. Marshall looked tired. "Sit down."

Marshall dropped heavily onto to sofa. "Red eye back," he said by way of explanation.

"Brandy?" offered Michael.

"Cold ale?"

Michael walked to the office refrigerator and pulled out a cold xxx for Marshall and reached for a glass in the overhead cabinet. "Forget the glass," Marshall suggested. Michael brought it to him and he swallowed half the bottle in one gulp. "Ahhhh. That's good." He sighed and leaned back.

"Can't wait to get back to Heather. And Thor."

Michael smiled. "It must be love. You mentioned Thor second."

"Aye. That it is, Michael. That it is."

"Congratulations. She seems a fine woman."

"That she is." They set in silence for a while as Marshall relaxed and finished his ale. "I'm not so sure about yours, though," he said at last. Michael didn't respond and waited for Marshall to finish the thought. Marshall gave him a long look.

"Just say what you have to say, Marshall. Don't worry about it," Michael said.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Her skills are fine, and they'll get better. She's intelligent. Headstrong, like you said. But that's not a hanging offense, eh?"

He sat a little longer, then leaned forward, balancing his fore arms on his thighs, still holding the cold bottle. "There's something off about her Michael. I had men under me in the army who liked it too well, you know? I think she's one of those. War lovers, we called them. OK under supervision. Good under fire. But you have to watch them. Watch them close."

"Because?"

"They can go berserker on you."

Michael nodded. He could accept that. He liked sex with Cynara, could use her knowledge of armaments to free up his time for gathering intel, but he didn't delude himself that he was in love. "Then we'll keep an eye on her. Can you control her?"

"As long as your orders make it clear. She respects your control, not mine. She already thinks she's your second in command."

"I'll handle it," Michael said.

"You do that." Marshall looked over Michael's shoulder at the object standing in a corner. He sat the bottle on the coffee table and walked over to it. The top half was suspended from the ceiling, the bottom half sat on the floor. The two parts were interlocked. Michael joined him and the two men stood side by side, hands in pockets, staring at it. "Is that art?" Marshall finally asked.

"Well, it's certainly not functional," Michael said.

"Wouldn't think so."

"Cynara picked it out. Post-modern."

"So that's what they're calling it this year."

He offered his own apartment to Marshall for the night rather than a hotel. Marshall didn't care as long as he could get some sleep. On the way, Michael explained the raid planned on Biliel. At the apartment he showed Marshall the layout, the coffee, the bedroom and was about to explain that a maid would show up with breakfast if he rang for it. Marshall was already out cold across the bed. Michael sat down next to him and pulled off his shoes, swung him around, and covered him up. Before he left for Cynara's house, he scribbled a hasty note about breakfast and left it on the night stand where Marshall would find it when he eventually woke up.

"I hate his guts," Cynara said.

"Good. That means he did a good job of training you." Michael could see that wasn't the right answer. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. "The better trained you are, the less likely you are to be injured, or killed. I don't want anything to happen to you."

That was the right answer. She softened immediately. 'I missed you, Michael."

"I missed you too," he said honestly. Six weeks. He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

Marshall was rested. Cynara was up for the raid. The men were ready. Michael deployed everyone around the house. It was a big two story wooden house with a centered front door and a garage nearly as large as the house itself. The alarm system, Michael had determined, was state of the art, but security personnel was minimal. Biliel placed his faith in technology.

Kevi and Jean-Louis sauntered down the street talking about their girlfriends. As they passed the two guards who stood on the sidewalk by the front door, they whirled around and karate chopped them. Both guards dropped. Kevi whipped out a knife and cut their throats. So far there hadn't been a sound.

Michael's men quietly surrounded the house. Michael approached from the rear and found the electrical input. He waved Dimitri to his side. A few pieces of copper wire, alligator and banana clips later the garage door opened. They slipped inside. Cynara was between Michael and Marshall. Dimitri, who had the face of a Botticelli angel, smiled sweetly when he saw the alarm control panel. He had the soul of an artist where alarms were concerned, and before him he saw a work of art. It was love at first sight. It was also totally dismantled in under 3 minutes.

Like a silent wave of darkness, Michael, Marshall, Cyanara, and all of Michael's men flowed through the house. There were six residents. Biliel, two brothers, and three of his men. And then there were none.

Three down, one to go.

It was over a little too quickly for Cynara's taste. As they departed through the garage she pulled a detonator out of her pocket and stuck it in the gas tank of one of the huge old Cadillacs that sat in the over-sized parking area. It was a '78 or '79, blue on rust, or perhaps rust on blue. She was walking behind Michael and Marshall was in step beside him. Neither noticed. When they reached the van they had arrived in, she pushed the button.

It made a wonderful explosion and she smiled as pieces of rust and blue and garage rained down on the street behind them.

"Cynara!" Michael grabbed her by the shoulders. "Don't go outside of mission parameters."

"It was ugly," she said.

"Focus,' he reminded her.

"I'm sorry." She hung her head as they pulled away, but she was still smiling.

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