Chapter 10

The Turkish National Police wore bulky camouflaged smocks that looked blue-tinged in the weird afternoon light, with sun slanting in bright white slashes through rents in the clouds, only to be diffused by billows of blowing snow. Over them they wore even bulkier dark blue ballistic vests. One or two wore maroon berets. The rest wore small helmets. Annja thought they looked funny, more like batting helmets than combat headgear.

There was nothing remotely comical about the black HK33 assault rifles the troops carried. They milled around the three expedition vehicles, which had pulled to the shoulder short of the roadblock and stopped, but so far had shown no sign of trying to enter or search any of them. Leif Baron and Larry Taitt had gotten out of the lead car to talk to them. Charlie Bostitch was just climbing out.

"Is it time to panic yet?" Jason Pennigrew asked Annja. He smiled, but the smile was tight.

"I'll let you know," Annja said with a lightness she didn't feel. Her main actual objection to panic at this point was that it wouldn't do any good, not that it wasn't called for.

"I'm just trying not to think about Midnight Express," Tommy Wynock said.

"Thanks for that image," Trish replied.

In the back of the bus the Young Wolves were pressing their noses to the windows and looking a lot less certain than they had a little while ago. Even Levi had set down his book and was gazing out with mild interest.

Annja didn't know yet whether anyone on the expedition packed any weapons. It wouldn't bother her if they had, not as much as she was pretty sure it would the television crew; given where they were going, into seriously hostile territory, it would make a good deal of sense. But the problem with weapons was if you needed them, and didn't have them, you were screwed. If they came out at the wrong time—such as in the face of overwhelming firepower, especially overwhelming official firepower in some third-world country whose outlook toward human rights was that there was no such thing—you were also screwed. She hoped the Young Wolves, if they did happen to be packing, had sense to leave the heat in their pants. Or wherever.

She found herself muttering all that to her seatmate. Levi smiled unconcernedly. "As we Jews say, it sucks to be the jug."

The front passenger seat of the lead car opened. "So who gets to sit up front when Himself rides in back, I wonder?" Wilfork murmured. The mystery passenger had entered the vehicle while most of the party were getting hustled onto the bus back at the truck stop.

What emerged into the uncanny light was a very stout man of medium height, wearing a dark blue business suit with the jacket opened. The wind instantly whipped a dark striped tie over one shoulder. He had on a red fez, which under other circumstances might have amused Annja even though it wasn't an uncommon fashion accessory in Turkey.

He bustled importantly up to where one of the maroon berets was standing with hands on hips scowling at Bostitch and his chief enforcer, Baron. At the sight of the tubby guy in the fez he straightened at once.

"Oh-ho," Jason said. "What have we here?"

"Must be some kind of major dude," 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 Hittite Kingdom in those days," Levi said. "Not much is known of the place before Caesar's fellow triumvir Pompey built a city here called Megalopolis, or Big Town. Around the end of the first century, though, the name was changed to Sebasteia, deriving from sebastos, a Greek translation of the title assumed by the first Roman emperor, Augustus. The current name evolved from that. The name Sebastian originally meant, 'a man from Sivas.'"

"Wow," Tommy said. "You mean everybody named Sebastian's named after this dump?"

Levi smiled and bobbed his head. "Yes. Exactly."

The Young Wolves looked at him as if they didn't know what to make of him, as if a winged squirrel had landed in their midst or something. Annja didn't think they'd normally be the types to take too kindly to being lectured by a know-it-all. Especially one who happened to be a Jew. Yet if anything they had been well trained to obedience, and Rabbi Leibowitz had been hired by their master Charlie precisely to know it all.

Anyway, unlike way too many intellectuals and academics of Annja's experience, there was no smug air of superiority about Levi when he engaged in one of his info-dumps. It all came out matter-of-factly. If you asked what he knew, he politely told you. And her associates from New York were staring at the rabbi about the same way the acolytes were.

"No fooling?" Josh asked, a little weakly.

"No fooling," Levi said solemnly.

Annja was with Tommy. She hadn't known about the origin of the name Sebastian, either. She disagreed about his opinion of Sivas, though. She could see how he'd be a bit prejudiced right now. The adrenaline rush of their early-hour escape from the potential death-trap of the Sheraton Tower had subsided into the usual ash-and-cold-water gruel of depression and vague dissatisfaction; the sudden vengeful fall of winter further chilling their spirits; and the encounter with the surly, heavily armed National Police more a cattle-prod shock to the fear gland than anything to produce even another temporary adrenaline-dump high.

All that, plus the not-very-inspiring nature of the closed truck-stop café, may have colored his judgment on Sivas. Or not. The city lay in a wide valley along the Kizilirmak or Red River, amid wide winter-fallow grain fields and sprawling factories, whose lighting, actinic blue through blowing snow, suggested they never lay fallow. It might have been a pleasant setting in spring.

A gust of wind threw some larger clumps of snow against the big front window, making everybody jump and turn. The door opened, admitting a swirl of wintry air. Charlie Bostitch stomped in, hugging himself and blowing, followed by Leif Baron and Mr. Atabeg. Larry Taitt brought up the rear like a puppy following its humans. Charlie wore a tan London Fog trench coat, Larry a black version of same, Baron a bulky jacket and a pair of earmuffs clamped over his bald dome. Atabeg wore just his suit and fez and seemed comfortable as well as indefatigably cheery.

"Well, we're good for the night," Baron announced, moving into the center of the room. "We won't have to show our passports, either."

"Under the circumstances," the local guide said, "the management saw the wisdom of such a course of action. Atabeg helped them see the way, of course."

"Whatever," Jason said. He stood up out of a booth. "So who's cooking?"

"We can play rock-paper-scissors for it," Tommy said, holding up a fist.

Baron showed teeth in a brief smile. "Not necessary. Zeb and Jeb—kitchen. See what they've got and report back."

The twins disappeared into the kitchen. One of them came back a moment later. He was still wearing his heavy jacket open over a blue shirt. So was his brother, so it was no use for identification purposes.

"They have ground beef in the freezer and even burger buns," he reported.

"It's a truck stop," Trish said to no one in particular. "What'd you expect?"

"Something Eastern European, given most of the long-range lorry drivers on this route," Wilfork said. He stubbed the cigarette out in a red ceramic dish. "Still, burgers do seem peculiarly appropriate. Cook on!"

Everybody else agreed. So did Annja, somewhat to her surprise. She enjoyed eating the food of the area she was working in, and particularly liked Turkish food, as it happened. But sometimes a hamburger just sounded right.

Trish seemed to read her expression. "Me, too," she said. "We're such Americans."

Josh frowned. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"What about you, Rabbi?" Annja asked hastily. "Are you all right with burgers?"

"Hold the cheese," he said with a smile.

What Annja thought was the other twin came out wearing a white apron. "Good news," he said. "We have the makings for milk shakes, too. Chocolate, vanilla. Strawberry if you don't mind it made out of preserves."

"Any soy?" Trish asked.

"No. 'Fraid not."

Trish made a face. "I'll take yogurt. It's Turkey. Surely they have yogurt."

The twin nodded. "There's yogurt."

"Well, I don't know about anybody else," Charlie Bostitch said, "but I could go for a milk shake. What about you, Ms. Creed?"

"Absolutely," she said with a smile.

Trish turned her a look as if to say, you traitor. Annja started to smile it off, but then got a weird unsettling feeling Trish was actually mad at her.

She shook her head. You're getting weird and silly, she told herself. Fatigue poisons are messing with your mind and emotions, that's all.

Everybody else wanted milk shakes, even Jason and Tommy. The twin returned into the kitchen, from which the sound of sizzling beef now came. Everyone seemed to sink into a sort of mellow fugue state. Pleased to be alive and free and safe for the moment.

Whatever happened next.