Chapter Fifty-four

IT WASN’T UNTIL later I discovered that the blackout had extended far beyond Bodrum. To Milas, for example – which meant that the evening performance of the circus had been called off, the tickets transferred to the following week, and the audience had left hours early to make their way home.

I figure that the little guy fell asleep on the drive back, so Cumali stopped outside her garage, as close as possible to her back door. She picked him up, pushed the Fiat’s door closed and carried him across an apron of concrete.

She slipped the key in the back door, opened it one-handed, and the blast of storm-driven wind entering through the missing four terracotta tiles on the roof would have told her instantly that something was wrong. If she had any doubts they would have been dispelled by the sound of my footsteps on the bare boards of the floor above.

She turned with her son in her arms, got back in the car and used her cellphone to call Emergency. I have no doubt that she gave the operator the confidential code – a feature of all police forces – which said that an officer was in trouble and needed urgent help. There was no other explanation for the speed and strength of the response.

Strangely enough, it was that urgency which gave me a chance – not much of a one, admittedly, but a chance all the same. In some situations you take what you’re given and make no complaint.

The first squad car to arrive came down the road fast – no siren or bubble-lights flashing, in the hope of surprising the intruder – but drew up to the kerb a little too fast. The sound of gravel being thrown up, almost buried in the wind, was the first indication I had that something was badly wrong.

An agent without as many miles on the clock as I had might have gone to the window to look, but I froze and listened. I heard the metallic sound of a car door opening and, when the door didn’t slam, it told me eloquently that the occupants didn’t want to be heard and were coming for me.

Even though I was certain that the cops were outside I continued to sweep through the filing cabinet, unwilling to surrender the only opportunity I would ever get, continuing to look for a document – any document – that would tell me Cumali’s birth name. I figured the visitors were waiting for back-up, which meant one thing was for sure: they wouldn’t be entering the house in numbers small enough for me to handle. I decided to stay until I heard the next car arrive and then get the hell out.

I kept searching, attuned to every sound, cancelling out the howl of the wind. Less than a minute later I heard at least one more car pull to a stop. Perhaps two. Despite my earlier plan – call me stupid, if you want – I pressed on. In the bottom drawer, under a stack of old law-enforcement magazines, I found a large leather book, the type of thing which I had seen many times before – a wedding album.

It wasn’t what I was hoping for but, under the circumstances, it was my best chance. I just hoped Turkish photographers were as business-minded as their counterparts in America. I opened the album at random, pulled out one of the photos and slammed the book back where I had found it, confident that one photo taken years ago wouldn’t be missed.

I jammed the photograph inside my shirt, scattered some of the contents of the filing cabinet across the floor and upended two drawers from the bureau to make it look like an amateur burglary. I picked up the Walther P99 and cocked it – at least, in that regard, luck was being a lady. I had no hope of using my own gun, in case suspicion fell on me – any ballistic tests on the bullets could end up nailing me with certainty – but the Walther was completely unconnected to me. I headed for the bedroom door, ready to use the gun.

Lights in the house came on – the power to the area had been restored. Maybe luck wasn’t such a lady after all. I wheeled right and headed for the stairs that led up into the attic – I had left them down and hadn’t replaced the roof tiles, just in case I needed a fast retreat.

I heard footsteps – pairs of boots, actually – coming up the front steps, and I knew the cops were only moments away. Clambering up the stairs, I heard the key turn in the lock.

I made it into the attic just as the front door was thrown open, accompanied by a man’s voice yelling in Turkish. I figured he was telling whoever was inside to throw down any weapons and show themselves with their hands up.

I hauled the ladder up, threw myself at the part of the attic where I had removed the tiles and crawled through on to the pitched roof. Sticking to the shadows, I elbowed my way forward and did a fast reconnoitre of the area. I noted Cumali’s car in the driveway and clearly saw her sitting inside holding her son, while a group of her colleagues moved towards the garage and through the backyard. They had the place surrounded.

There was only one way out: a sprint over the tiles and a flying leap across the eighteen-foot-wide driveway to the roof of Gul’s adjoining warehouse. No sweat – eighteen feet was no problem for me.

Sure. I hadn’t jumped anything like eighteen feet through thin air since training and, even then, I was more wooden spoon than gold medal.