the city’s cosmopolitan atmosphere and returned to basics. “Where do you think he plans to use it?”
“An inside attacker somewhere, or perhaps two. These rifles would be lethal at close range.”
“Where? How?”
“Mow down the Sultan himself? Inside the Sublime Porte and take over the Grand Vizier’s offices? Kill key generals at the barracks before they can stop a revolution?”
“We can’t let anything like that occur.”
“No.”
The rifles sneered.
Chapter Thirty-three
The wind dived and tore Gareth’s clothes, fast as a hawk striking at a dove. Sunshine might make the day warm and bright, but it also gave predators far too many advantages.
“It’s a beautiful mosque,” Portia commented.
“Even more so, on the inside,” Gareth agreed absently.
Perhaps if he craned his head a little more, he might spot something which would reveal St. Arles’ intentions, here at Constantinople’s highest point. Or was he on a fool’s errand, looking for clues amid the chaos of an old bazaar quarter?
“To have an ancient Greek church next to it, plus the ruins of another, is grand,” Portia cooed in a splendid impersonation of sightseeing awe. “Where else could I see such wonders in one place?”
He grunted an acknowledgement, far more interested in that British warship. Had she moved out into the harbor a little more?
“And this Roman wall.” Portia clucked her tongue. “Did it truly stop invaders for more than a thousand years?”
Gareth pulled his attention back from the distant Golden Horn’s waters to his very close wife and the pile of rubble beside her.
Portia. His beautiful, courageous, stubborn friend, who insisted on calling him her husband. Even though she knew what he’d done in the past and that he planned to walk away from her in the future. Somebody to ride the river with, as his father would have said.
Portia, a woman he didn’t deserve.
“Do you believe this wall could stop invaders again?” she asked, her cheeks nicely flushed by the wind.
If he bent his head a little more, he could pretend the single cypress tree concealed them from passersby and kiss her.
“Yes, it’s Roman,” he said softly, his lips very close to her ear.
Most importantly, he could pretend they had a future together.
“Yes, it did stand for more than a thousand years, including through multiple earthquakes.”
Her lips trembled in a large, round O.
Movement beyond her shoulder caught his eye.
Gareth lifted his head—and reluctantly thanked God for the interruption. Kissing Portia rattled his wits far more than gunplay ever had and he couldn’t afford to lose any edge now.
“But our Ottoman overlords let it fall into decline two centuries ago, Lady St. Arles,” said a French accented voice. Familiar but not extremely so.
“In the same manner as they themselves forsook all manly pastimes and sank into the pits of degradation,” growled another, far too well-known voice. The revolutionaries’ leader at the palace, dammit.
The intruders stopped several paces away and well within sight, holding out their hands. At least they weren’t trying to sneak up on him and Portia.
“What a pleasure to see you again, ‘Abd al-Hamid,” Portia exclaimed. “But, please, you must call me Mrs. Lowell now. I married this gentleman several days ago.”
“Congratulations, monsieur, madame!” ‘Abd al-Hamid looked genuinely pleased, rather than green from puppy love gone awry. “May Allah bless you with many years and children together.”
Gareth hoped his smile seemed genuine.
“We have come to apologize for disturbing you yesterday,” said the large revolutionary.
Why the devil would he want to do that?
“Indeed?” Gareth inclined his head, indicating willingness to listen, and strolled closer to the church. They’d be less likely to find an audience there who’d understand French, unlike the Francophile Turks.
“Both of you have done much good for my young cousin,” the big man said, lowering his voice to a remarkably soft bass rumble. “We owe you much in recompense.”
“Therefore we have come to warn you what St. Arles’ chest contains.” Abdul suddenly sounded very decisive and Portia stared at him.
Gareth frowned slightly, old nerves firing up for battle.
“Yes, that is why I found you—or allowed you to think you discovered me, gracious lady. It has always been necessary for us to keep a close eye on that trunk and its contents.”
“Go on,” Gareth said curtly, unafraid to be blunt. After all, nobody could reach the priceless object without his and Portia’s help.
The two men glanced at each other.
“There are at least two separate groups of revolutionaries,” Abdul began. “One does what you might call typical tasks—demonstrations in the public squares, control of the newspapers…”
“Not to mention the army and navy?” Gareth suggested.
“Those, too,”