The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [236]
“I am a man of peace,” Michael said quietly. “There are no modern weapons in my house. This sword saw my father through many a battle with the Russians and now it will do the same for me.” After picking up his cane, he limped to the door. He stopped and gave her one last long look. “I will return,” he said, “with Anna.”
Refika heard the front door slam behind him and then the sound of the car’s engine. She ran to the window, watching as the taillights disappeared down the driveway, then with a little moan she covered her face with her hands. She felt like a wife sending her husband off to war. After a moment she ran to the phone and called Ahmet and told him what had happened.
“I am leaving now,” he said quietly. “I will be there with the police. Mother, I want you to call Cal Warrender and Malik Guisen and tell them what’s happening. Do you know their numbers?”
She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, tears raining down her face. “Please, Ahmet, hurry.”
Michael waved away the police blockade impatiently. “Out of my way,” he roared. “I have important business.”
They stepped back respectfully as the big silver Bentley Turbo roared down the hill, then the officer in charge hurried back to his car to report to headquarters that Kazahn Pasha had left in a hurry.
Ferdie caught the Bentley in his powerful binoculars as it wound its way down the hill. He was in the empty gas station forecourt across the main road, and he switched on the ignition, gunning his engine, waiting for the Bentley to reach the coast road. He smiled with satisfaction as the car skidded to a half stop at the intersection and then swung quickly right toward Istanbul. Michael Kazahn was in a hurry, and he bet he knew why. As he pulled out onto the coast road after him, he thought that the long wait had been worth it.
There was a single light over the stair leading down to the old cistern, and beyond it lay inky blackness. Genie closed the door behind her and walked slowly down the stone steps. Her feet throbbed painfully and the cuts on her ankles were bleeding again. She hesitated at the edge of the tiny pool of light, peering into the blackness before taking a tentative step forward. It was almost as bad as the cabin on the ship, only here the air felt moist and she could hear water dripping.
Istanbul was riddled with underground cisterns. The Basilica was one of the oldest, built by the emperor Constantine to store water brought in by aqueduct from the forests of Belgrade and kept here for emergencies like siege or drought. The monolithic Byzantine and Corinthian columns supported a vaulted brick roof, and the cistern was so grand it had become known as the Yerebatan Sarayi, the Sunken Palace. In the old days men had explored it by boat, but now the constantly seeping water was kept to a depth of less than a yard and wooden walkways had been built to make exploration by tourists easier.
Genie remembered visiting it when spotlights had illuminated the eerie columned aisles and grottos, and the solemn music of Bach played over loudspeakers had made the old legends of men lost in endless underground tunnels and carried away by mysterious currents seem just what they were—legends. But now, as she stood in the dark on the concrete platform leading to the walkways, she could believe them. She thought of Cal, thousands of miles away, probably wondering what had happened to her, and she was swept by a sudden longing for his reassuring presence. She would give anything to see his steady red-setter eyes smiling into hers, to hear him telling her everything would be fine, there was no danger. And she would believe him, because this was not his doing, it was hers. It was she who had played a dangerous game, she who was responsible for her own fate. And now she was all alone.
She took a cautious step forward, her hands held out searching for a wall, testing the ground in front of her so as not to take a tumble into the murky water three feet below. Her fingers connected with a guide rail and she felt the wooden planks of the walkway. Keeping