Noah kept his gaze on her. "The partners have determined that in this instance it would be preferable to withdraw than to fail."
Moira felt her blood rising. "You can't withdraw, Noah. I'm not going to fail."
"I'm afraid that's no longer an option," he said, "because the decision's been made. As of oh seven hundred this morning we've officially notified NextGen that we've withdrawn from the project."
He handed her a packet. "Here is your new assignment. You're required to leave for Damascus this afternoon."
Arkadin and Devra reached the Bosporus Bridge and crossed over into Istanbul just as the sun was rising. Since coming down from the cruel, snow-swept mountains along Turkey's spine they had shed layers of clothes, and now the morning was exceptionally clear and mild. Pleasure yachts and huge tankers alike plowed the Bosporus on their way to various destinations. It felt good to roll down the windows. The air, fresh, moist, tangy with salt and minerals, was a distinct relief after the dry hard winter of the hinterlands.
During the night they'd stopped at every gas station, beaten-down motel, or store that was open-though most were not-in an attempt to find Heinrich, the next courier in Pyotr's network.
When it came time for him to spell her, she moved to the passenger's side, put her head against the door, and fell into a deep sleep, from which emerged a dream. She was a whale, swimming in icy black water. No sun pierced the depths where she swam. Below her was an unfathomable abyss. Ahead of her was a shadowy shape. She didn't know why, but it seemed imperative that she follow that shape, catch up with it, identify it. Was it friend or foe? Every so often she filled her head and throat with sound, which she sent out through the darkness. But she received no reply. There were no other whales around, so what was she chasing, what was she so desperate to find? There was no one to help her. She became frightened. The fright grew and grew...
It clung to her as she awoke with a start in the car beside Arkadin. The grayish predawn light creeping through the landscape rendered every shape unfamiliar and vaguely threatening.
Twenty-five minutes later they were in the seething, clamorous heart of Istanbul.
"Heinrich likes to spend the time before his flight in Kilyos, the beach community in the northern suburbs," Devra said. "Do you know how to get there?"
Arkadin nodded. "I'm familiar with the area."
They wove their way through Sultanahmet, the core of Old Istanbul, then took the Galata Bridge, which spanned the Golden Horn, to Karak?y in the north. In the old days, when Istanbul was known as Constantinople, seat of the Byzantine Empire, Karak?y was the powerful Genoese trading colony known as Galata. As they reached the center of the bridge Devra looked west toward Europe, then east across the Bosporus to 鞋sk?dar and Asia.
They passed into Karak?y, with its fortified Genoese walls and, rising from it, the stone Galata tower with its conical top, one of the monuments that, along with the Topkapi Palace and Blue Mosque, dominated the modern-day city's skyline.
Kilyos lay along the Black Sea coast twenty-two miles north of Istanbul proper. In the summer it was a popular beach resort, packed with people swimming, snacking in the restaurants that lined the beach, shopping for sunglasses and straw hats, sunbathing, or just dreaming. In winter it possessed a sad, vaguely disreputable air, like a dowager sinking into senility. Still, on this sun-splashed morning, under a cloudless cerulean sky, there were figures walking up and down the beach: young couples hand in hand; mothers with young children who ran laughing to the waterline, only to run back, screaming with terror and delight when the surf piled roughly in. An old man sat on a fold-up stool, smoking a crooked hand-rolled cigar that gave off a stench like the smokestack of a tannery.
Arkadin parked the car and got out, stretching his body after the long drive.
"He'll recognize me the moment he sees me," Devra said, staying put. She described Heinrich in detail. Just before Arkadin headed down to the beach, she added, "He likes putting his feet in the water, he says it grounds him."
Down on the beach it was warm enough that some people had taken off their jackets. One middle-aged man had stripped to the waist and sat with knees drawn up, arms locked around them, facing up to the sun like a heliotrope. Kids