Tommy said. "Otherwise the
cops'd hand him a beat-down for stepping up to them like that."
Annja cast a quick look back at the Young Wolves. She reckoned them to be big
law-and-order guys. But they might've reserved that for U.S. cops. Their own pallor and posture suggested they were as nervous about the National
Police, whose manner definitely seemed to live up to their internationally
fearsome reputation even if they hadn't actually done anything yet, as Annja
herself was.
The man in the maroon beret actually saluted. Then he turned and started
barking orders at the camo-clad troops.
"Whoa," Tommy said.
"Yeah," Josh Fairlie agreed.
The National Police started hustling back to their vehicles. The tubby guy
bustled back toward the bus. He was grinning hugely beneath a colossal black
moustache.
The driver opened the door for him before he reached it. Either he knew the man
or figured, wisely, that anyone who could make the National Police hop like
that was not somebody a mere bus driver wanted to keep waiting. An icy gust
whipped fine snow into Annja's face.
The man mounted the steps and stuck his head in the door. "Never to fear,
dear friends!" he called out in thickly accented English. "Atabeg is
on the case! The police, they pull back and let us go."
"Thank God," Josh said. He seemed to have the most acute
understanding of all his crew of just how deep a pot they were in.
"Yes, yes!" the newcomer chortled. "Thank God! And also Mr. Atabeg."
"Thank you, Mr. Atabeg," the whole bus chorused as one.
He smiled, bobbed his head, waved cheerily and withdrew. As he waddled back to
the car Tommy said, "What do you suppose that was all about?"
"No clue," Jason said. "Just be glad he's on our side."
"Amen, brother," Josh said.
* * *
THE CITY OF SIVAS LAY in
eastern Anatolia, halfway between Ankara and Erzurum. Erzurum being the point,
Annja gathered, at which things would get really interesting.
"Once upon a time," she murmured, half to herself, "this
would've been a caravanserai."
"And nowadays," Jason Pennigrew said, "it's a crappy building
made out of cinderblocks, with attached truck-stop café."
"The Brits call a place like this a transport caff," Trish said
brightly.
"Ah, the Pommies," Wilfork sighed, plummily seating himself in a
booth with a cracked vinyl back. "Masters of euphemism."
The restaurant on the strip development outside Sivas had been closed when they
pulled in. Apparently Mr. Atabeg, probably with help from money, had talked the
motel management into unlocking the restaurant and letting the group in to fire
up the grills and cook themselves a late meal. Like a lot of fairly similar
facilities Annja had visited in the interior USA, the look and general feel of
the place suggested it had been all chrome-and-Formica shiny and clean when
new. It was chilly and shabby now. About a quarter of the fluorescent lights
were lit, casting a jittering, dispiriting illumination that made the place
feel closed. The diner smelled of stale cooking oil and illicit, harsh
cigarette smoke.
As if to add to the ambiance, Wilfork lit his own smoke.
"Do you mind not smoking in here?" Jason and Josh said in unison.
They looked at each other and grinned sheepishly.
"Yes," the journalist drawled. "In fact I do mind not smoking in
here."
He took a deep drag. "Welcome to Sebasteia," he said.
"What was it called in the Bible?" Eli Holden asked. He sat with most
of the other acolytes around a table in the middle of the room. He was a wiry
guy, an inch or two shorter than Annja, with red hair curly on top and shorn
short on the sides of a head that seemed to sprout on a stalk of neck from
shoulders well-roped with muscle. He had lots of freckles and his eyes were a
murky green. He said little. When he did the others listened, with what seemed
more like wariness than actual attention. He seemed to specialize in doing what
he was told and asking no questions—which made this one doubly surprising.
"It belonged to the
cops'd hand him a beat-down for stepping up to them like that."
Annja cast a quick look back at the Young Wolves. She reckoned them to be big
law-and-order guys. But they might've reserved that for U.S. cops. Their own pallor and posture suggested they were as nervous about the National
Police, whose manner definitely seemed to live up to their internationally
fearsome reputation even if they hadn't actually done anything yet, as Annja
herself was.
The man in the maroon beret actually saluted. Then he turned and started
barking orders at the camo-clad troops.
"Whoa," Tommy said.
"Yeah," Josh Fairlie agreed.
The National Police started hustling back to their vehicles. The tubby guy
bustled back toward the bus. He was grinning hugely beneath a colossal black
moustache.
The driver opened the door for him before he reached it. Either he knew the man
or figured, wisely, that anyone who could make the National Police hop like
that was not somebody a mere bus driver wanted to keep waiting. An icy gust
whipped fine snow into Annja's face.
The man mounted the steps and stuck his head in the door. "Never to fear,
dear friends!" he called out in thickly accented English. "Atabeg is
on the case! The police, they pull back and let us go."
"Thank God," Josh said. He seemed to have the most acute
understanding of all his crew of just how deep a pot they were in.
"Yes, yes!" the newcomer chortled. "Thank God! And also Mr. Atabeg."
"Thank you, Mr. Atabeg," the whole bus chorused as one.
He smiled, bobbed his head, waved cheerily and withdrew. As he waddled back to
the car Tommy said, "What do you suppose that was all about?"
"No clue," Jason said. "Just be glad he's on our side."
"Amen, brother," Josh said.
* * *
THE CITY OF SIVAS LAY in
eastern Anatolia, halfway between Ankara and Erzurum. Erzurum being the point,
Annja gathered, at which things would get really interesting.
"Once upon a time," she murmured, half to herself, "this
would've been a caravanserai."
"And nowadays," Jason Pennigrew said, "it's a crappy building
made out of cinderblocks, with attached truck-stop café."
"The Brits call a place like this a transport caff," Trish said
brightly.
"Ah, the Pommies," Wilfork sighed, plummily seating himself in a
booth with a cracked vinyl back. "Masters of euphemism."
The restaurant on the strip development outside Sivas had been closed when they
pulled in. Apparently Mr. Atabeg, probably with help from money, had talked the
motel management into unlocking the restaurant and letting the group in to fire
up the grills and cook themselves a late meal. Like a lot of fairly similar
facilities Annja had visited in the interior USA, the look and general feel of
the place suggested it had been all chrome-and-Formica shiny and clean when
new. It was chilly and shabby now. About a quarter of the fluorescent lights
were lit, casting a jittering, dispiriting illumination that made the place
feel closed. The diner smelled of stale cooking oil and illicit, harsh
cigarette smoke.
As if to add to the ambiance, Wilfork lit his own smoke.
"Do you mind not smoking in here?" Jason and Josh said in unison.
They looked at each other and grinned sheepishly.
"Yes," the journalist drawled. "In fact I do mind not smoking in
here."
He took a deep drag. "Welcome to Sebasteia," he said.
"What was it called in the Bible?" Eli Holden asked. He sat with most
of the other acolytes around a table in the middle of the room. He was a wiry
guy, an inch or two shorter than Annja, with red hair curly on top and shorn
short on the sides of a head that seemed to sprout on a stalk of neck from
shoulders well-roped with muscle. He had lots of freckles and his eyes were a
murky green. He said little. When he did the others listened, with what seemed
more like wariness than actual attention. He seemed to specialize in doing what
he was told and asking no questions—which made this one doubly surprising.
"It belonged to the
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