The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,39

and studded with decrepit, inefficient, first-generation air-conditioning cubes. The Audi followed a few seconds later, surging to catch up.

‘You weren’t imagining, arkadaşım,’ said Clay. My friend.

He brought up the map of Istanbul in his head, the old paper tourist one he’d used on that first visit, years ago now, when he was working in the east out near Diyarbakir and Van, the one he’d used to walk the tangled streets for hours and days till the paper was soaked in his sweat and the folds and corners had pulped and worn through.

‘The buyuk kapalı is close, yes?’ he said in Turkish. The Grand Bazaar, a dozen miles of arched and pillared labyrinth, a confusion of shops and stalls selling every kind of trinket and antique and adornment ever conceived.

Hamour nodded and urged the El-Nasr up a steep hill.

Clay reached into the backseat and grabbed his bag. ‘Drop me outside. Any entrance. It doesn’t matter if they see me.’

‘Where will you go?’ said Hamour, the folds of his neck quivering as he darted through the traffic. ‘I have a reservation for you at the Hilton.’

‘I’ll be at the Seglik Merkezi Hotel in Tepebaşi. Do you know it?’

‘I can find.’

‘Good. As soon as you hear from Lise, tell her to go there and ask for Mister Edward.’

Hamour nodded, opened his mouth, paused, closed it.

‘Got that?’

‘Mister Edward, yes.’

‘Sağol.’ Thanks.

‘The bazaar is near,’ Hamour gulped. ‘Less than a kilometre.’ His voice was strained, fearful.

Clay checked the wing mirror. The Audi was still there, five or six cars back now, struggling in the thickening traffic.

‘There is one more thing: Monsieur LeClerc asked me to tell you that Zdravko Todorov has escaped.’

Clay spun in the seat, stared at Hamour.

‘A deal was made between the Yemeni terrorists who captured him and the French government. Apparently something went wrong during the handover.’

‘Jesus. When?’

‘About one month ago, according to our sources.’

A month. ‘Where is he now?’

‘We have no idea,’ said Hamour, slowing and pulling to the side of the street behind a small delivery van, its back doors open. Stacks of cut flowers filled the cargo space. Petals littered the gutter.

Clay had the door open before Hamour brought the car to a stop. ‘Çok teşekur ederım,’ he said, swinging his feet to the pavement. Thank you. He paused, hand on the edge of the door, glanced at the Audi drawing near, leant into the car. ‘I’ll be waiting for Lise at the hotel.’ And before Hamour had a chance to reply, he closed the door and strode through the crowd toward the big Ottoman archway and the entrance to the market.

15

Weapons Ready, Hearts Racing

By now Clay was pretty sure that LeClerc had been compromised. His erratic behaviour on the phone, the fear in his voice, the sudden change from recalcitrant and defensive to apologetic and helpful – all suggested something was seriously wrong. Was he being manipulated? Had he been paid off? Knowingly or not, and for reasons Clay could only begin to guess, LeClerc had sent him into a trap. Rania, too, most likely. The tail from the airport was proof enough. Whether Hamour was a willing participant or a witless pawn made little difference. Medved’s people were here, and they were closing in.

But in chaos was safety. The bazaar was packed. He had a sixty-second head start and a thousand possible routes. Clay calibrated his internal compass for east, veered left into a narrow-arched passageway and emerged into a snaking artery walled with oriental carpets. Medved’s people – he was assuming that they were Medved’s people, or Crowbar’s, working for Medved – would have no idea where to start. There were too many alleys, too many people, too many shops and turnings, and far too many exits to watch. He moved quickly through the throng, turning right into the broad, high-arched gold souk and quickly left again into the clutter of brasswares, moving steadily north and east. Ten minutes later he emerged, eyes blinking, at the Nurosmaniye Mosque, the domes and minarets on his right, the gardens green and cool, the trees ancient, trunks as thick as cars. His pace was quick but unhurried as he came out onto Bezciler Street. It took him less than thirty seconds to hail a taxi. He jumped in, haggled a price and sank down in the back seat for the ride through the Golden Horn and across the Galata Bridge.

Twenty minutes later the taxi dropped him in one of Tepebaşi’s narrow side streets. Rubbish overflowed from ancient bins ranked along